


Godless

by CarpeOmNoms



Series: Godless [1]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: #weallgotissues, Casual whoring, Except Bolin (Bolin's perfect), F/F, Fantasy AU, Frenemies to friends to lovers, Plot first; jokes second; romance third, Reluctant Hero, Slow Burn, Sort of dark I guess, Swearing and shit, Terrible coping skills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5436356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpeOmNoms/pseuds/CarpeOmNoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>In the year 580 AG, Republic City was plunged into a brief and bloody battle at the hands of the radical insurrectionist Amon. For five days the streets ran red. The small folk called it The Purge - the initial conflict and the years that followed - when the ancient art of magic was eradicated from the city. The council, in their hubris, had not thought Amon a threat. The council, in their defeat, hung creaking from the gallows. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Three years later, four unlikely heroes find themselves sucked into a second bloody revolution. Driven by vengeance, duty, family, and desperation, they must rely on each other if they are to survive insurmountable odds, and the hard realization that not all demons can be killed with cold steel.</em></p><p> </p><p>A silly little fantasy AU which tackles such serious topics as: Alcoholism, faith and doubt, unabashed group snuggling, redemption, morning wood, death and grief, and the importance of personal hygiene.</p><p>*** ON HOLD. Will come back to this when life is more conducive to writing. Until then, xoxo.  ***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A burglary goes horribly awry.  
> Korra gets two black eyes.  
> And people die.

The streets were as quiet as they were dark, and fear sat like a stone in Mako’s gut. As they slunk through the empty alleys of Faverhill - a township too small and too poor to light their streets with oil - he again considered turning back. If it had been up to him, they would have abandoned this fool’s errand yesterday, long before they found themselves only ten leagues from Republic City’s outer wall. Too close, he thought. Entirely too close. 

It had been nearly three years since The Purge, since he and his brother had fled in the dead of night while the radical insurrectionist Amon and his followers slaughtered every mage they could root out. That night had flared bright with unnatural fire - streaks of blue and brilliant purple starbursts - the death rattle of an ancient art. But for the wails of dying men, one might have mistaken them for fireworks, the kind the artificers lit at the Solstice Faire to the delight of children and common folk. He had trouble recalling the details of their flight. He remembered the streets were littered with rubble, and bodies, and all manner of thing like to trip a man up. And he remembered the sound of murmured prayers as Bolin pleaded with his god for deliverance. Apart from that, he remembered only terror. 

Three years since that night, and now he was but a hard day’s ride from the stage of his nightmares. 

So lost in his memories was Mako, that he did not realize his companions had come to a stop until he ran up against the broad back of his brother. Bolin turned and gave him a questioning look. They had come to rest at the corner of an intersection. Dirt roads met at square angles, and the single story timber-and-thatch buildings pressed close as conspirators under the light of a half moon.

“We shouldn’t be here,” he started in a hoarse whisper. “It isn’t safe.”

“Safety doesn’t pay, Mako,” said Korra. She flashed him a lopsided smile that caught the moonlight. He felt her hand rest against his shoulder and give a reassuring squeeze. “And this job was too good to pass by, remember?” She patted the coin purse on her belt, and he could hear the soft clink of platinum. 

She was right, he knew. It was a windfall for them. Thirty pieces up front, the rest upon completion. It had been years since he and Bolin had seen so much platinum. And though the three of them weren’t the best suited to burglary, he had been just as eager as the others to accept the employ. An easy enough job. Steal an artifact, provide employer with artifact, get paid again. It seemed almost too simple.

And yet, now that he was here, he could not shake the sense of rising dread. He wracked his mind for a compelling argument, for a reason that justified turning back. A primal fear gnawed persistently at his innards. Too close, he thought. The Purge was not over. Amon was still hunting mages. Too close to Republic City, and his magic was the mark of death. 

“Brother, we must,” said Bolin. His brother could read a man better than most, and seemed always to know what Mako was thinking. “Besides, we’ve already spent some of our earnings.”

Mako frowned at this. “We needn’t have, but for your cavernous gut.”

As if it understood the remark, Bolin’s stomach rumbled in the quiet of the night. “I was hungry,” he said simply. He grinned and patted his midriff. Korra snorted, clearly struggling to contain her laughter. 

“Come now, Mako,” she said. “Everything will be fine. We will be leagues away before daybreak. I may even buy you a whore. Busy your mind with that instead.” She winked at him and elbowed him in the ribs. “Spirits know, I hate watching you worry so.” He cast a scowl at her. 

Bolin threw an arm around his shoulder, and squeezed him in an awkward side embrace. “My nerves are thundering too. But we walk in the light of Raava, and so long as we keep the faith, we have nothing to fear.” Bolin pressed a closed fist against his own heart, a silent sign of devotion.

Korra rolled her eyes and spat into the hard-packed dirt. She stalked off down the street without another word. Bolin smiled after her sadly. 

When it came to the gods, Mako shared neither Korra’s disdain nor Bolin’s immutable faith. He was a simple man, who rarely thought further than his next meal or his next fuck. But there was something about Bolin’s unwavering and almost childlike conviction that tempered his nerves in times of trial. 

The brothers stood together in the silent street for a moment before Bolin cocked his head in the direction of Korra’s retreating form. “Come, brother. We should follow. She’s like to stir up a pile of donkey shit without us to rein in her temper.”

Mako’s mouth became a hard line, and he nodded, hoping to convey a determination he didn’t quite feel. Despite his doubt, he sent forth a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening. 

\-----

There was nothing that Korra loved better than the promise of danger. Nothing, not even a strong drink and an eager whore. There was something about the sing of anticipation in her veins, the thunder of her heart. It was a cleansing blaze, and it burned from her all suffocating sorrow and weight of regret. There was not room in her for both her demons and the heat of that blaze. And for this reason she loved it best, because nothing so thoroughly banished her ghosts, and it was a strange and welcome peace she found in the heart of conflict. 

The beginnings of this thrill were starting to creep up her spine as Korra gazed at their mark - a small, rough timber dwelling with a thatched roof, thirty yards down the road. A wooden sign hung from two iron chains above the door, and it creaked with each gust of wind. On the sign was emblazoned a wrench and anvil, marking the building as a tinker’s workshop. Korra didn’t trouble herself with why a simple handyman would be in the possession of a powerful artifact. It was not unheard of for the common folk to traffic in the strangest trades. 

Like most of Faverhill, every window on this street was shuttered, and there were no sounds other than the restless shuffling of livestock and the occasional call of a night-owl. In her peripheral she saw Bolin draw even with her, and on her other side, Mako. She did not turn to look at them, but kept her eyes on the dark and dusty street.

“I apologize if my faith offends you,” Bolin said in a low voice. Korra closed her eyes and drew a deep breath through her nose. She held it for a count of five. Nearby a horse whinnied and stamped in its stable. The breeze tugged gently at her wolftails, and on the exhale, her irritation was taken by the wind. 

This was a near daily conversation for them, thoroughly rehearsed. There was a certain comfort in the redundancy. 

“Koh take your bloody faith,” muttered Korra, but there was no malice in her words, and Bolin nodded, acknowledging their familiar, if unconventional, reconciliation. 

Though his foolhardy devotion stirred her ire, she counted Bolin a steadfast friend. Mako, too, when they weren’t exchanging biting words or blows. In all her travels, she had not met another soul who could weather her stormy moods as the brothers could. It was comforting, and though she was loathe to admit it - most especially to herself - that comfort frightened her. 

Without preamble, she started swiftly down the road in the direction of their mark. She could hear Bolin behind her. Even without his armor he strode heavy as a destrier with mounted knight. Mako’s footfalls were lighter, and she marked the absence of the usual swish of his robes. He had forgone them tonight, wearing only a simple tunic. It would not do to be marked as a mage this close to Republic City. He carried a short sword at his hip, though he might as well carry a fire lily for all the good it would do him. Mako was a hopeless swordsman.

The lock was simple, and dispatched of easily. The door swung inward on well-oiled hinges, and moonlight filtered in behind it. Korra moved through the room silently, making note of her surroundings in the span of a second. Two rooms, no door to separate them. One alley-facing window, shuttered. A small forge, an anvil, a workbench, a few wooden shelves laden with gadgets, an iron-bound chest, haphazard piles of scrap metal. A wooden trap door, likely to a cellar.

She breached the entryway into the second room, and the faint orange glow of a dying hearth illuminated a half circle of the dirt floor to her right. She motioned for the boys to halt. There was little space, and she was the most proficient in an unarmed scuffle. She drew a linen rag from within her leathers, and crept toward the sleeping form on the bed. 

This was it. Bind and gag the tinker, ransack the shop for whatever weapon-glove-artifact-magic device they were looking for (her employer had been as vague as he was eccentric), and disappear into the night. Child’s play. She allowed herself a smile. 

Korra struck like a coiled snake, hands shooting out to grab the sleeping man, linen gag at the ready. But her hands found only bed linens where an instant before there had been flesh. Surprise took her for only a moment, but it was a moment too long. The dark shape on the bed rolled to the side, and kicked out both feet. They caught Korra in the stomach and she stumbled back. 

The tinker sprung out of bed and swung. She deflected the blow, and grabbed the man’s wrist, going in for a grapple. Her grip was broken, and she felt her arm twist to the point of pain. She rotated with it, spinning low, meaning to hook the man’s legs and bring him down to the floor. 

And that was when she caught an elbow on the bridge of her nose. Pain exploded behind her eyes and she lost her footing and fell unceremoniously onto her rear. 

Mako and Bolin burst into the room, setting upon the tinker, and soon the three were a writhing black mass of shadow. A few muffled grunts and thumps punctuated the scuffle. Korra pressed herself against the wall, hoping to avoid any errant elbows in the close quarters. One had been enough. She wiped the blood from her upper lip and scowled. Anger at her own carelessness rose like bile in the back of her throat.

In less than a minute, the boys had bound and gagged the tinker. They threw him on the bed and he landed with a soft _whump_. She could hear them panting in the dark room, and the sounds of the man struggling against his bonds. 

The hearth-light did not reach as far as the shadow-dark shapes of the others, so Korra took a candle from a chest of drawers - the only other furniture in the room but for the bed - and lit it in the dying embers. She stepped between the brothers to get a better look at the lout who had nearly broken her nose. 

In the candle’s illumination, Korra discovered that the tinker she had assumed was a man was in truth a woman. She was lying on her side, and ceased her struggling to asses her captors with calculating eyes. Her unbound black hair fell unkempt about her shoulders and pooled on the lumpy mattress. A few strands stuck to her face, plastered there by a thin sheen of sweat that shone orange in the candlelight. Her eyes were hard as diamonds, and they bored into Korra with a fierce hostility. She felt an immediate and overwhelming dislike for the woman. 

“Gods! _...Asami?!_ ” Mako’s voice startled her, too loud in the quiet of the night. 

The woman’s gaze shifted to the source of the outburst, and Korra saw her eyes widen in surprise, and then thin to angry slits. It made the look she gave to Korra seem tame in comparison. Mako cringed and backed up a step. He ran a hand through his hair, and Korra cocked an eyebrow at his nervous habit. 

“Asami!” cried Bolin, delight in his voice. He crouched down so that he was level with the prone woman. “By Raava, it’s been years! How _are_ you?” 

The woman turned her glare to Bolin. She made a muffled, entirely unintelligible, and distinctly sarcastic sound through her gag. 

Bolin laughed, a little embarrassedly. “I suppose now is not the best time to talk. Um... Hmm...” He turned to his brother. “We can’t rob Asami. ...Right? Mako?”

Mako opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it again. Opened it. The result was a most convincing imitation of a carp out of water. 

Perhaps it was the pain pounding behind her eyes, sharp as a knife. She could feel it in her teeth with every heartbeat. Perhaps it was the anger churning in her gut. Perhaps it was the mounting frustration at her own desperate confusion. Whatever it was, Korra was distracted. Mako and Bolin must have been too, because not a one of them heard the thunder of hoofs until they were just outside. 

Korra swore under her breath and shifted her foot back, crouching in a defensive stance. Her muscles bunched and coiled as she turned toward the sound. Her fingers ghosted nervously over the pommel of her sword. On the dirt floor the candle lay snuffed and forgotten. 

The door burst inward with a jarring crash, and four soldiers rushed into the shop, three men and a woman. They wore boiled leather and swords at their hips. One carried a lantern and all were armed, but none had drawn. In the light of the lantern, the rune for equality shone an angry red on their chests and their cloaks. 

“There!” one cried and pointed, and two others pushed into the back room.

“Out of the way!” The biggest of them shoved Korra and Mako back into Bolin. The three stumbled, but kept their feet.

Korra gripped her sword, but did not draw. Every nerve in her body sparked and crackled. From her vantage she could see through the entryway to the workshop. Two soldiers in the bedroom, two in the workshop, possibly more outside. Poor odds, those, and Korra was not one to gamble on such. She narrowed her eyes and shifted her weight and watched. 

The two in the bedroom grabbed Asami by the arms and legs and carried her swiftly out of the shop to their waiting horses. A third followed immediately, not even sparing a glance for the would-be burglars. The fourth, the one with the lantern, cast a scowl at Korra and the brothers, and drew his blade a few inches from its scabbard. A threat. A warning. Then he turned on his heel and stalked out into the night. 

Korra blinked in the low light, and slowly removed her fingers from the grip of her sword. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in a great, heaving whoosh. The coiled muscles in her back and shoulders began to relax and her mind struggled to make sense of the past few minutes. The sudden compulsion to laugh nearly overwhelmed her. 

They were safe. Spirits knew how, but they were _safe_. She was just about to open her mouth and voice the sentiment, ‘What in the _seven hells_ was _that_?’ when Bolin’s shout broke the silence.

“Wait!” he cried. “Wait! You can’t take her!” And he rushed out of the shop and into the street.

“Bolin, no!” Mako hissed, voice cracking in horror. He made a sound that was half anger and half despair, and shot forward in chase. 

“Idiots!” growled Korra. She drew her sword. Those two halfwits were like to get themselves killed, and it looked like she was along for the ride. 

It was only a few short strides before Korra burst into the open air. There were six of them, all told, each wearing Amon’s rune. One was mounted, and Asami was slung over the saddle, limp and unmoving. The other five had turned to assess the interruption. 

“I can’t let you take her,” Bolin said. His jaw was set and his eyes were hard, but he opened his arms in supplication. Spirits _no_. He was going to try to reason with these curs. She looked to his warhammer, still strapped to his back. Not a weapon that could be readied in haste. Mako shifted nervously beside her, and they exchanged a worried glance. “Release her, and I swear by the light of Raava, you shall leave here unscathed.”

“Stand down, peasant,” said the woman. Her smile was yellow and cruel. “Lest I send you to your gods.” 

“Very well,” intoned Bolin. He reached over his shoulder, but before his fingers could grip his hammer, he was forced backwards by a vicious swing of the woman’s sword. 

As one the enemy rushed forward, and Korra met two of them with a wordless yell and cold steel. She parried the first to reach her, and spun to meet the second in the same motion. The ring of steel on steel rent the silence of the night. 

Korra fought with a fury tempered by the discipline of long practice. She met each attack, and countered with slashes and thrusts both aggressive and precise. Soon she had both swordsmen on their heels, struggling to keep with the swing of her blade. She felt no fear. There was no room for fear when her blood was up. 

Before her, and a little to the right, a sword clattered on the hard-packed dirt. Mako’s, no doubt. He would need her help, and soon. A primal roar ripped from her throat, and she redoubled her attacks. She pressed for advantage, and-

-and her peripheral exploded in a burst of orange light. The heat hit her like a solid thing, and she nearly faltered. The smell of burning flesh overwhelmed her a moment later, and a blood curdling scream was followed by shouts of “Mage!” 

One of her opponents - the smaller, quicker one - broke from combat and took off toward the flames. She swore, and chanced a look in that direction. Mako threw bursts of fire at a single swordsman, who was doing an impressive job of dancing around the attacks. The man who had fled from Korra flung his sword to the ground and ran swiftly toward Mako’s exposed flank. She shouted a warning, but it was too late. Lightning quick, the man jabbed his fingers like knives into Mako’s side. She had just enough time to see him crumple to the ground before a particularly aggressive slash from the enemy dragged her attention back. She parried, and sidestepped the next thrust. 

_Seven hells_. Her split attention had put her on the defensive again, and she couldn’t afford to waste the time. 

“Bolin!” She called, feinting left, then slashing. This time, his parry was just an instant late, but still deflected her blow. “ _Bolin!_ ” She pressed harder. Slash. Feint. Slash. Thrust. Backhand slash. 

“ _Busy!_ ” His voice came from her left. 

She growled and swung a vicious downward strike. Her opponent brought his sword up, and the blades met with jarring force. For a moment they locked at the guards, and Korra bore forward with all of her strength, pushing the larger man back. He stumbled, and his arm swung just a hair wide in counterbalance. That was all it took. Korra’s blade bit into the leather of his middle, and the soft flesh beneath. 

Before he hit the ground, she was running in the other direction. She saw Bolin’s hammer find its mark, and heard the sickening crunch of bone. She cast about for Mako, and for the rest of Amon’s men, but the only trace of them was a settling cloud of dust. In the distance, three riders disappeared around a bend in the road. The other horses must have spooked in the fight - there was no sign of them. All down the street, frightened faces peeked out of darkened doorways. 

One of Amon’s men, badly burned, lay dying on the ground. The sounds of his gurgling moans filled the night. Bolin approached him, stolid and grim-faced, and Korra turned her face away. There was a wet _thunk_ , and then silence. 

“Korra...” Bolin’s voice was thick with sorrow. “They have Mako.”

Korra ground her teeth and screwed her eyes shut against the threat of tears. Self-loathing hit her like hammer blow, and in that moment her demons were back with a vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, so please feel free to bring to my attention any spelling/grammar errors.
> 
> Comments are the lifeblood of the fandom. Please do. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two of our heroes plot a daring escape.  
> Two bemoan an impossible rescue.  
> And Mako gets the shit slapped out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww shit. It's Wednesday again?

_The bald man with the blue tattoos crested the hill. He raised a hand to shield his eyes against the early morning sun and looked out over the rolling green and down onto the little fishing town nestled fast against the bay. His mouth split into a grin that lit up his entire face._

_“Here it is. Our new home,” he said._

_The smallest of his companions - a fair skinned woman with dark hair - padded up beside him on bare feet. She dug in her ear with her little finger, and then flicked her findings into the grass. “It’s beautiful,” she said._

_“Isn’t it?”_

_She punched him in the gut and he doubled over, wheezing. “Blind, you idiot. I’m sure it’s a shit hole.”_

_Behind them, a young tribesman laughed so hard that he nearly fell over and a woman who bore a striking resemblance to him crossed her arms and rolled her eyes._

_“I think it has potential,” whined the bald man, regaining his breath. His lower lip pushed out in a pout that made his face look ten years younger._

_The fifth companion - a man with a scar and black hair pulled back in a severe bun -stepped up and put a hand on the bald man’s shoulder. “It _is_ a shit hole, my friend,” he said. “But we will make it great.”_

\-----

Korra hated her visions, those waking dreams that hijacked her mind and emotions. More often than not they were flashes of images - blue tattoos, an angry red scar, that young warrior in wolftails who laughed more than he smiled and smiled more than he frowned - images racing by faster than she could keep with them. Often she would come to with emotions that were not her own, and that made her feel dirty and violated. None of it made sense, ever, and it only served to remind her of everything she had lost. 

And so she despised these waking dreams, and despised that they invaded her mind and corrupted her being. Her only consolation was that they were rare, perhaps once a moonturn. 

That is, they _had_ been rare, until she crested the hill and first laid eyes upon the high walls and towering spires of Republic City. Since then, her mind had not been her own. 

She could feel Bolin’s eyes on her, worried and tired. He knew of her waking dreams, and he knew not to ask after them. She bristled at the thought that he was pitying her. It made her feel weak and wounded. Some part of her knew that it was only compassion in those tired green eyes - that Bolin cared for her deeply - but that part of her was seldom in control of her mouth. 

“ _What?!_ ” She snapped, and Bolin flinched from her. He wore his hurt plain on his face, a wounded little pout that made him look a boy of twelve. Immediately guilt clawed in her chest, and she turned away, unable to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “It’s just... with everything that’s happened, I’m a little... raw.”

“I know,” he said, and turned his gaze to the stronghold beyond the open plaza, studying the high stone walls and watchtowers. “Everything will be all right in the end, though. It always is.”

After retrieving their mounts and possessions from the inn, they had ridden hard through the night. Bolin kept his silence the entire ride. He was often introspective after he took a life. It was the only time his spirit seemed to sink. That spirit had resurfaced in the last hour, buoyant as a cork, and his unflappable optimism was beginning to wear on her already frayed nerves. 

How long had it been since they had slept? Her mind was foggy and the days had begun to blur together. Too long, she surmised. It was nearly dusk again. She leaned tiredly on her quarterstaff. The feel of the smooth-polished ash was a comfort in her hands.

“You’re sure you don’t know where the dungeons are?” she asked, gesturing with her chin toward the fortress.

“No, I’ve never been inside. But I’m sure I can find them once we’re in.” He palmed the rough black stubble that shadowed his cheeks, and gazed at her contemplatively before his face broke out in a brilliant smile. “I have an idea!” 

Korra groaned and tapped the butt of her quarterstaff on the ground in irritation. “ _Gods_ , not another one.” 

“No, this is a good one! I’ll sneak around to the side of the wall, and make the call for a yellow-crested-bandersnap, and when the guards come to investigate, you sneak in!” He talked animatedly, hands gesticulating wildly. His green eyes sparkled in the failing light. 

“Bolin,” she took a steadying breath. She would not snap at him. Not again. “Even if I could walk through a _closed_ portcullis - which I _can’t_ \- why would the guards give a half a shit about a... a... yellow-whatsit-banana-hammock?” 

“Because they’re not native to the Republic!”

She tried very hard not to crack his skull with her staff, and was absurdly proud of herself when she succeeded. “Forget it, Bolin. We’re not going to be able to breach these defenses.”

It was the third time they had come to that conclusion in the past hour. Frustration and bone-crushing weariness warred within her. They had long since exhausted all of their rescue ideas - schemes ranging from improbable to impossible to suicidal - and she was tired of talking in circles. There was nothing to do but stand and grumble and wait for inspiration, or some favorable turn of luck.

Beyond the open plaza - beyond the gallows that cast long shadows in the late-evening light - Amon’s holdfast rose dark against the red-orange sky, penned in on all sides by the sprawl of Republic City. The outer wall was the height of three men, and on each corner rose watchtowers manned with bowmen. Sentries walked the wall and some stood still and watchful on either side of the great iron portcullis.

“Spirits, Bolin, they were after the _tinker_ ,” she said again. She felt it warranted repeating. “We could have walked away from this! Hells, they may even have paid us a platinum piece for trussing her up so nicely!” She scowled and spat. Almost as an afterthought, she muttered, “ _Bloody heroes_.”

Bolin spoke slowly, and his voice was tempered and patient. “Asami is a friend, Korra. I couldn’t let them-” He cut his sentence short as a small group of city folk passed close by. When they had rounded the corner he continued in hushed tone. “I couldn’t let them take her.”

“Well they did, _Sir Squire_ , and your brother too.” She huffed out a puff of air that ruffled her bangs. “I should just leave you here to figure this mess out. Perhaps your precious _Raava_ can help you.” 

Bolin frowned, but held his tongue. They stood together in uncomfortable silence. There was a tension that clung to them like tar, and Korra knew that she was the source but couldn’t muster the energy to do much about it. 

When the sun began to dip behind the distant city walls, and she was fairly sure Bolin was nodding on his feet, she broke the silence. “Who is she?” She asked quietly.

Bolin started, and snorted. “Huh?” He blinked at her owlishly, and she repeated the question. 

“She’s an artificer,” he said. Korra hummed and nodded. That explained why Amon wanted her. Artificers could be powerful allies or dangerous enemies by turn. Theirs was a strange marriage of magic and industry. “Not just any artificer, either. Her father was a councilor before the Purge, and she was heir to his seat.” 

An artificer and heir to the consulate. Korra wracked her mind, recalling what she could about the government of Republic City. There were five seats on the council - one for each school of magic - and the eldest and most powerful families passed the rule down generation to generation. 

“And you were friends?”

“We were,” Bolin smiled sadly. “She is a kind soul, and clever, and quick as a whip. She and Mako courted. He was going to ask for her hand, even. But that ended with the Purge.” His smile retreated. “Everything ended with the Purge.”

The sun set, and the bustle of the city streets began to quiet. The lamplighters came out and lit the gas lamps, and close by a pleasure house spilled squeals and laughter out onto the street. Occasionally she would catch a snatch of conversation from passerby, but she listened impassively, if at all.

“We should get some rest,” said Bolin. “I’ll take the first watch. Find someplace nearby to curl up.”

“Best idea you’ve had all day, Sir Squire,” said Korra. She was tired down to her bones, but a part of her dreaded the idea of sleep. As much as she hated her waking dreams, she feared her sleeping dreams more, and when she lay down in a nearby ally, she begged silently for a night without blood and ice. 

\-----

The first thing Mako was aware of was the hammering pain in his temples. Shortly after that realization came the nausea. His stomach churned, and a fire crept up his throat. He leaned to the side and was sick. It splattered wetly on the stone floor. His whole body spasmed, and long after the contents of his stomach were empty, he continued to heave. 

When his gut finally calmed, he opened his eyes and cast them about the dark room. The walls and floor were rough-hewn stone. His shoulders burned, and he realized he was sitting against the wall, arms shackled high above his head. To his left was a pile of dirty hay, and a rotting wooden bucket half full of nightsoil that was not his own. The pervading stink of human filth clung heavy in the air. Guttering rectangles of orange light reached across the floor almost to his legs. They came from a high barred window in the heavy oaken door, and the flickering torches just beyond. To his right, Asami sat cross legged in the middle of the floor and regarded him with her sharp, calculating eyes.

“You’ve been blocked. The nausea should pass shortly. It’s easier if you don’t move.”

Mako closed his eyes. They felt dry and scratchy. He reached inside of himself and grasped for the swirling eddies of energy that flowed below the surface, but found them just out of reach. The attempt rekindled his nausea, and he gave it up. 

His head spun, and the events that led him here slowly filtered into his mind. He recalled the burglary, and the fight. Memories of the long ride through the night were blurry and disjointed. “Where are we?” He asked, dreading the answer. He could taste the bile from his sickness in the back of his mouth, and he turned his head to the side and spat twice. 

“In the dungeons under The Palace of the Consulate. Well, I suppose it’s Amon’s palace now.” She laughed bitterly. 

He gave that knowledge a moment to sink in. He was not surprised to find that he was afraid, but it was a quiet, resigned sort of fear, not the abject terror of the night before. He was too weary for terror. 

“How long have I been out?”

“Hard to tell.” She shrugged. “Most of the ride. And I’m not sure how long we’ve been here, but my best guess is the better part of eight hours. So I’d say you’ve been out for nearly a day.” He nodded. Conjuring flames hot enough for battle was a taxing endeavor. When the adrenaline was spent, his body was like an empty vessel, drained to the last drop. It was no wonder he slept. 

Asami stretched her legs out before her, splaying her toes. She wore a simple undertunic and a pair of loose linen trousers. Her feet were bare. She sat casually on the floor and examined her fingernails. It was then that Mako realized that she was unbound. He looked from her to the empty pair of shackles hanging on the wall to his right. Noting his questioning look, Asami reached up into her hair - still tousled from sleep and scuffle and capture - and removed from it a small metal pin. She showed it to him, smiled a smug little half-smile, and then returned it to her hair. 

She rose and crossed the room toward Mako and crouched down in front of him. For a moment he thought she was going to unchain him. That was before her hand whistled through the air, and her open palm met his cheek with a dizzying _crack_. 

“Ow! Son of a whore!” His cheek burned so hot it brought tears to his eyes and he blinked a few times to clear them. He glared at her. “What was that for?”

“That was for Mai.” 

“Who?”

“The barmaid at _The Dancing Dragon_. How many times did you fuck her, Mako?”

His stomach dropped out from under him. He had nearly forgotten about that. It had been so long ago, and he had been a very different man. Young and careless. “...Once?” It did not come out quite as convincingly as he hoped, and she hit him again. On the same cheek. He wondered how she had found out, but quickly decided it was not that important. 

He also thought that perhaps this was not the most prudent time for this conversation, but he kept his silence. If he had learned anything from courting Korra, it was that he suffered a lot fewer bruises when he held his tongue. He figured that same tenet applied to this situation as well.

“How many others were there, while we were together? You know what, don’t answer that. All mages traffic in lies,” she huffed angrily. In the space of an instant, the hard edge in her eyes was replaced with a flash sorrow, but it was gone just as fast. When she spoke again her voice was low, and he could hear the hurt in it. “And to think I loved you... More fool I.”

He hung his head. Shame settled snugly in his chest - a feeling almost comfortable in its familiarity. He heard her rise to her feet beside him, and felt his chains shift as clever fingers tampered with the shackles. A moment passed, and his arms dropped to his sides. The movement caused the pain in his shoulders to spike again before it began to subside. 

He rubbed his wrists, and looked up at Asami standing over him. Her eyes were guarded, her face schooled into an expressionless mask. She offered him a hand, and he took it and hoisted himself to his feet.

“What are they going to do to us?” He asked, looking everywhere but at her.

“They will hold us for a few days, or a few weeks. During that time they will beat us, and brand us, and starve us, and interrogate us for the location of others. They may take a finger or two, and they will break bones we didn’t know we had. And when they kill us, it will be a blessing.” His stomach flipped, and he prayed he wouldn’t be sick again. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, willing the bile back down. “And _that_ is why we’re leaving.” 

As she spoke, she began to undo the hemp cable that belted her linen trousers. “Three guards - down the passageway, around a bend, and through another door. Two of them come in every few hours to block us, the third remains in the guardroom.” She dropped her trousers without warning or explanation and Mako’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He spluttered embarrassedly, and ran a hand through his hair, but did not look away. If Asami noticed, she paid him no mind. “They carry halberds and wear short swords or dirks on their belts.” Her fingers fumbled at a narrow felted pouch, strapped high on the inside of her thigh. Mako’s brain struggled to form words - a question of some sort - but he had trouble thinking past the long pale expanse of Asami’s legs. “We are going to incapacitate them, _quietly_ , take their clothes, and show our heels to this wretched place.” 

When she bent to retrieve the linen pooled around her ankles, Mako realized he was gaping, and shut his mouth so quickly that his teeth clacked together. Pulling up her trousers and re-belting them, she turned to Mako with a look of mild irritation, and tossed him two small objects - roughly the size of large coins - which he fumbled but managed to catch. “Get ahold of yourself,” she said, her words clipped and indignant. 

He looked down at the objects in his hands. They were flat and round, and had four small hooked appendages around the outside, like the cardinal points of a compass, only bent. It almost looked like a caltrop that had been flattened into a disc. The metal was warm in his hand, and it drank the torchlight rather than reflecting it. He could feel the gentle pulse of magic. 

“To activate, hold it like this-” she demonstrated by holding one of her own between thumb and forefinger, “-and squeeze three times in succession. You will have four seconds to throw it at your target. You don’t want to be holding it when it goes off. Trust me.”

He grunted his understanding. Asami was a gifted artificer - better even than her father - and he had seen the sort of brilliant destruction she could imbue into an artifact. He would hate to be on the receiving end of one of her creations. 

“I only have five of these. I expect you to take down _one_ guard. I gave you an extra in case you miss. Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“ _Don’t miss_.”

They sat down with their backs against the wall below the shackles that had held them, and waited in the quiet darkness for the arrival of the guards. It gave Mako time to reflect. He couldn’t recall, for the life of him, what had been going through his mind when he took Mai to bed. Nothing, most like. Over the past few years he had begun to realize that he was woefully inept when it came to forethought. 

After a few minutes, Asami’s voice broke him from his thoughts. 

“I thought you died in the Purge,” her voice was flat, and betrayed no emotion. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I thought you died, too,” he said. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, to find some perfect turn of phrase to make her see the depth of his regret, to make her understand that he was not the same man he once was. He wanted a miracle salve that could remove from her the hurt he had caused. But he was old enough now to understand that things did not work that way, and that most wounds were more inclined to fester than heal, so he said the only other thing he could think of. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

She was silent for a long while, and Mako began to wonder if she had heard him. Finally, she responded with a simple, “Likewise.” 

He wasn’t sure how long they waited in silence, but eventually they heard the distant slam of a door, and the scuff of leather boots approaching. What little light the hall torches provided was eclipsed by the face of a guard in the small barred window. Mako and Asami sat stock-still, hands gripping the shackles above their heads in mock-restraint. The face disappeared, weak light once again guttered through the bars, and the sound of a heavy wooden bar being removed from place echoed in the small room. 

Shifting silently into a low crouch, Mako readied himself for action. The door opened, and the first of the guards breached the doorway. Before he could even lay foot in the cell, Mako activated his device and threw. He did not miss. The device caught the man in the chest, latched onto the leather armor as if alive, and erupted in a web of brilliant blue lightning. The guard grunted, convulsed, and fell to the floor like a sack of flour. Asami’s throw took the second guard a moment later. 

They were on their feet in an instant. Stepping over the two prone men, they slunk swiftly down the rough stone passageway. Heavy oaken doors, barred and locked, lined the hall. Around the bend, the way ended at another door. 

Mako put his hand on the iron handle and looked to Asami, who gave him a firm nod. He threw the door open, and rushed into the room. Two guards sat a weathered table, rolling dice. Asami got the first one in the throat. The second gave a yell of surprise, and reached for the halberd leaning against the wall behind him. Mako cursed, and fumbled for his other disc. He hadn’t expected another guard. 

Mako’s throw hit him in the forehead just as he was readying to charge, and the man collapsed in a spasming windmill of limbs. 

“Nice throw,” said Asami, raising an appraising eyebrow.

“Hardly. I was aiming for his chest.”

It took them less than ten minutes to drag all four men into the cell, strip them down, and dress themselves. Mako’s tunic was a little short, and Asami’s boots a little big, but they made a fairly convincing pair of guards. 

“So what now? We just walk out the front gates?” He asked. That quiet, insidious fear was still with him, but it was slowly being eclipsed by a rising hope. 

“We leave, but not through the gates. There is more than one way out of this holdfast, and I doubt that all of them are known to the current occupants. You forget, this was a second home to me.” 

As they approached the spiral stone stair that would take them to the palace proper, a thought popped into his mind and he laughed out loud. Asami gave him a questioning look. “Do you always sleep with powerful weapons between your legs?”

“Besides the one I was born with?” Her smile in the torchlight was a weapon in itself - delightfully inviting and dangerous - and it stirred a pleasant sensation in his stomach, and somewhere lower still. He shook his head to clear it. That bridge had burnt, and he would not pine for ashes and char. “You’d be surprised. Besides, do you think I’d live a day’s ride from the capital and not be prepared for the inevitable?”

“Why live so close at all? What could be worth the risk?”

Her face changed at the question. And though she was looking in his direction, her eyes were focused somewhere far away. Mako could not read her expression. When she spoke again her words were almost too soft to hear. 

“Vengeance.” 

\----

“Korra!” Bolin hissed nearby. “ _Korra!_ ” 

It had been a restless night, and long. Sleeping in an alley was not a new experience for Korra, but that hadn’t made it any more comfortable. She cracked her eyes, and the alley was grey in the predawn light. 

“What?” she grumbled. She rolled over and hunkered further down in her bed of dirty hay. “It can’t be my watch _again_. I feel like I haven’t slept a wink.”

“Get up! Something’s happening.”

She groaned, but pushed herself up and swatted the hay from her clothes. He led her out of the alley and onto the cobblestone road, and gestured toward the palace. The portcullis was up, and Amon’s men hurried out in groups of twos and threes, splitting off in every direction. Behind them the great iron gate closed with a ponderous _clang_. 

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but I can probably find out.”

He stepped out into the street, and directly into the path of three guards.

“Good sirs! And lady,” he hailed. The woman - a squat, muscular thing with a mouth too broad for her face - regarded him with open disdain. 

“Out of the way, cur,” she said, and made to shoulder past him.

“Please! Please, hear me out.” Bolin gave her his most endearing smile. She seemed less than impressed, and the group parted and began to pass on either side of him. “I saw them!” He said hurriedly. “I saw which way they went!” They paused, and the woman turned back to face him, her interest piqued. “A tall man with unruly dark hair, and with him a beautiful maiden with hair like midnight.” The group exchanged furtive glances among themselves. “They looked like trouble, they did - I’d bet my hammer on it - and they ran that way, towards the market!” 

The three took off in the direction indicated without a word or backward glance.

“Godspeed!” He called after them. “Raava be with you!”

Korra let out a bark of laughter and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” he smiled. “But I do now.”

“My friend, you are a genius.”

“I know,” he said, and only Bolin could make such an admission seem humble. “And I also know where they’ll be heading.” He threw an arm around her shoulder and led her off into the city, in the opposite direction as the retreating guards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asami receives loot: +2 Garters of Panty-Dropping Sex Appeal
> 
> (Author’s note: The traditional Avatar Cycle doesn’t exist in this AU. Aang and company will play a part in the history of this world, but they lived and died 500 years ago. I wonder if there is a connection between Aang and Korra, and if so, what it is? Hmm.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For vengeance.  
> For duty.  
> For family.  
> For fuck’s sake!
> 
> (i.e. Korra gets roped into a suicide mission by the rest of those assholes.) 

The _Tree of Time_ was nearly empty at this early hour, but for two rough looking men breaking their fast at a far table, and a lush sleeping off her drunk near the hearth. The tavern was located in the Harbor District, flush against the dockside road. Outside she could hear the fishmongers crying their wares. The place smelled of piss, and vomit, and other things Asami did not want to think too long on. The dour-faced innkeep - supposedly an old friend of Mako’s - wiped the bar and grumbled under her breath. The rag she used was dirty, and she was accomplishing little more than smearing the filth around. 

It was not the sort of place Asami frequented. Even in the years following The Purge when she wandered aimlessly about the Fire Kingdom, she never found herself in establishments quite so unsavory. 

She clasped her hands on the bar top, battling the urge to pluck at the scratchy wool tunic the innkeep had provided her. She tried very hard not to guess what had caused the stains on her clothes, and instead busied herself reciting incantations in her head - a comfort habit from early childhood. The faint smell of the sewers still clung to her, though she had scrubbed herself raw with the rag and bucket of water that came with their room. Or perhaps it was Mako who still stank of shit. He had not scrubbed nearly as hard. 

Her face was a carefully constructed mask of composure. She did not want to advertise her distaste. After all, it had been Mako who had found for them this refuge, and she was grateful that they had a place to lay low until travel was safer. It had taken some time to convince the surly doorman to let them in, and now that they were off the street (and out of the sewers) Asami felt some modicum of safety.

Mako sat beside her, wearing his own set of borrowed clothes, drinking watered ale and brooding. She watched his adams apple bob with each swallow, and noted the trickle of ale that snaked its way down to his chin. He put his tankard back on the bar and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d hardly said a word since they arrived at the tavern, and she could feel his discomfort radiating off of him like heat from a flame. 

Curiously, her own anger toward him - the hurt that had flared so unexpectedly when he had broken into her shop in Faverhill - was all but gone. When she looked at him now, she felt nothing. Not affection, not regret, not even the irritation that he normally inspired. She was finding it difficult to feel much of anything of late, and that realization troubled her. She imagined she was like one of her constructs - imbued with life, but not truly living. 

They drank in silence, but for the muttered curses of the innkeep. After a while, a commotion at the door caught her attention. She could hear muffled voices just beyond, and for a terrifying moment she thought that Amon had tracked her down. She pushed that fear down, placed it into its proper compartment, shut and locked the lid.

A small, rat-faced woman who was leaning against the wall just inside the tavern door stood on a stool and opened the eyeslot to get a better view. The sound of the harbor - and the confrontation going on just outside the door - filtered in. 

“No entry,” said the gruff voice of the guard.

“Stand aside, kind sir. As I said before, I am an old friend of the proprietor of this establishment.”

Mako’s head whipped toward the door, and then back towards Asami. His eyes were wide with recognition. “That’s Bolin!” He turned to the barkeep. “Lin, that’s Bolin!” Lin glowered at him, and he recoiled a bit. 

“No entry,” repeated the guard.

“If you would just-” There was a grunt, and the scuffle of boots on cobblestone. “-stand _aside_. I’ll let myself in- Ow! _Ow!_ ”

“Open the goddamn door, Shia, before that whoreson draws any more attention,” barked Lin. Shia slid the stool away from the door and fumbled for the handle. 

Mako was already on his feet and moving toward the entryway. Asami rose and followed slowly, watching with interest. The door opened, and she craned her neck to see past the others and out into the street. 

The burly doorman had Bolin’s head trapped in the crook of his elbow, and was manhandling him into the road. Behind him, a young woman in worn leathers and a navy tunic was clutching her sides and laughing at the scene. Asami recognized her as the woman from Faverhill, and remembered that Mako had named her Korra. Korra carried a short sword on her hip, and a quarterstaff strapped to her back. The flesh around her eyes and nose was swollen and purpled. She looked like she hadn’t seen a bath in her life, but her laugh was high and clear as temple bells in the morning light. 

That was what struck Asami first, and hardest. It had been a long time since Asami had heard such genuine mirth, and some small part of her envied that laugh. It stirred something pleasant within her, and she let herself indulge in that warm feeling for just a moment before locking that away too. 

“Bolin!” cried Mako. Bolin ceased his struggling and looked up, head still trapped in the crook of the guard’s elbow. 

“Mako!” His green eyes lit up and a smile split his face. “Good morrow to you! A little help?”

Mako nodded to the guard, who scowled and released his grip on Bolin. As soon as he was free, Bolin took off toward Mako and nearly knocked him over with the force of his embrace. “Thank Raava you’re okay!” He cried, and picked Mako up, spinning him once. He dropped his brother and turned to Asami.“And _you!_ Asami, it’s so good to see you!” He hugged her as well, and as her feet left the earth she couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped her. 

When he put her down, she brushed herself off and offered him a warm smile. “Hello Bolin,” she said. “It’s nice to see you under happier circumstances, when you’re not trying to rob me blind.”

Bolin had the good grace to look abashed at that, and he pawed the back of his head sheepishly. “My sincerest apologies, my lady,” he said. “I am at your service, that I might make up for that grievous misunderstanding.” He leaned forward and planted a kiss on the back of her hand. 

“Ever the charmer.” She looked past him to Korra, who had been watching the exchange with guarded eyes. Her mirth from before was gone, replaced with an almost palpable suspicion. “And you must be Korra. A pleasure to meet you.”

Korra grunted once and averted her eyes. She turned to Mako and said, “You’re not dead. That’s good.” Then she pushed past Asami and into the inn, bumping her shoulder harder than necessary on the way. 

Asami turned and watched the woman retreat. She narrowed her eyes and frowned. Clearly the show of aggression was meant to rifle her, but she would not rise to the bait. She would not give anyone that satisfaction, least of all this stranger. Before she could ponder further on the young woman and her aggression, Lin’s harsh, grating voice broke her from her thoughts. 

“Close the goddamn door!”

And so she did, and followed Mako and Bolin back to the bar.

\-----

“The city has gone to shit,” Lin scowled and plopped a tankard in front of Bolin. He accepted it thankfully. Lin was in her cups, and it hadn’t taken long for Bolin to figure out that it made her more talkative but no less angry.

“Lucky you got out when you did, kid. The _fuck_ are you doing back? Are you touched in the head?” Bolin opened his mouth to respond, but Lin plowed right on over him. “Idiots. Bloody idiots. Lay low for a few days, and then beat a track as far from here as you can get.”

Mako sat at the far end of the bar, well away from anyone else, staring intently down at his hands. He was well on his way to drunk. Asami sat beside Bolin, nursing some mulled wine and listening closely to Lin’s tirade. Korra had excused herself to their room - a small accommodation on the second story of the inn - citing the need for sleep. Bolin knew it was more than that. Her nerves were stretched taut as a bowstring. She had always been volatile, but he had never seen her this bad. The past day she had been a veritable powder keg, and though he loved her dearly, he was tired of being the spark. 

“Trade has all but dried up. Fire Kingdom ships won’t even dock here anymore, not when they’re subject to search and seizure. Things weren’t great under the consulate, but it was never _this_ bad. They hanged a child last week, couldn’t have been older than seven. Too young to be a studied mage, not in this city with no one to teach him.”

“Must have been an Adept,” said Bolin quietly. “Like Mako.” He looked toward the far end of the bar, where Mako was gouging dejectedly at the rough oak with the tip of his knife. 

“Hey! Cut that shit out!” Lin barked, her words cutting the air like a cleaver. Mako looked up at her, and then down at the knife. He let it clatter on the wood, took a grimacing swig of his spirits, and then buried his face in his arms. Lin, seemingly satisfied, turned her hard stare back to Bolin. “Taxes are backbreaking,” she continued. “There’s no work to be had, not for the common folk, and the streets are full of the sick and starving.” 

Bolin had seen it himself as soon as he’d entered the city. He’d spent two years on these streets - that had been before Mako’s abilities had manifested and their fortunes had turned - and he could sense the suffering intuitively. It filled his heart with a deep and abiding sorrow. He could read the streets of this city, and they were full to bursting with pain. Three years he had been gone, and he had not imagined that a city could change so profoundly in such a short time. 

A righteous anger rose in him, hot and fierce. He clenched his fists on the edge of the bar, afraid that he might strike something if he wasn’t careful. The Purge had forced him from the city before he had been knighted in his seventeenth year, and though he was not truly a Templar of the Order of Raava, (not _yet_ , he told himself), he carried within his heart their tenets and values. He would protect the weak. He would defend the helpless. 

He could feel the strength of his faith building within him, a fire that sat low in his belly and burned all the way to the tips of his toes. He was a now a man of twenty, and had seen his fair share of battle in the intervening years. This was a righteous cause, Raava-blessed, and in his heart he knew that he was not going to abandon his city a second time. 

He would fight. He must. 

Mako was going to be furious. 

“Is there organized resistance?” Asami asked, eyes watching Lin with guarded interest. 

Lin turned a fierce glare on her. “I don’t know you from Yue, kid. You wouldn’t be here but for the word of these two assholes. Don’t push your luck.”

Asami regarded her calmly. “Let me rephrase. There _is_ organized resistance, and you are privy to it. I want in.”

“And I want a solid gold chamberpot. Get lost.”

Asami’s voice was calm and even, and dangerously soft. She regarded Lin with unflinching eyes, and a small smile that was somehow casual and threatening all at once. “This place stinks of safe house. And unless you want Amon’s men kicking down your door and stringing the lot of you up, I would suggest you cut me in on the action.”

Bolin could feel a panic rising in him. He could see Lin’s hackles rising, could practically feel the anger radiating off her. “Asami,” he hissed. “Asami, _don’t_.” Asami summarily ignored him. 

“I’ve been raided before,” Lin said. She leaned threateningly over the bar. “Amon likes to swing his dick around, make sure us small folk know who’s in charge. An empty show of force. They’ve never found anything, and they won’t now.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Contraband can pop up in the most unexpected places.” Asami stood and splayed her palms on the bar, leaning forward as well. Her voice was still honey soft, though, and she still wore that harmless smile that was making Bolin just a little sick. 

Lin’s hand moved to the hilt of her dirk. “Threaten me one more time, _girl_ , and I’ll give you scars to match my own,” she growled.

“For a shot at Amon? I would wear them proudly.”

Bolin looked on in mute horror. Even on a good day Lin was a bear - all feral, bristling rage. One did not poke a bear with a stick, not if they valued their limbs. Asami was quite casually poking. 

There was a long moment of impasse, one woman staring down the other. The tavern had come to a standstill, and every pair of eyes was trained on the two. The silence was deafening. Bolin couldn’t tell how long that moment stretched, but to him it felt like forever. He could feel a trickle of sweat creep down the back of his neck.

Lin’s dirk flashed through the air, so fast it whistled. Bolin yelped in surprise and closed his eyes. There was a thick _thunk_. His stool wobbled back on two legs, and for a moment he teetered. Then he fell backwards, paddling his arms all the way down. 

The tavern floor hit him with enough force to knock the air out of him. Wheezing and clutching his sides, he struggled to his knees. He steeled himself for whatever bloody mess Lin had made of Asami. But when he peeked over the edge of the bar, he saw Asami and Lin staring at each other much like they had been. Lin’s dirk was buried an inch into the wood of the bar top, right between Asami’s hands. 

He looked from Asami to Lin, and then around to the end of the bar where Mako was looking a little green with terror. Then he heard Lin snort, and the corner of her mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. 

“I like this one. She’s got pluck.” Lin yanked her dirk from the wood and re-sheathed it. Splitting her gaze between Mako and Bolin, she said wryly, “You boys could learn a thing or two. Got more balls than the two of you combined.”

Asami’s smiled into her wine and raised an eyebrow at Bolin.

\-----

It was dusk when Korra awoke. Her sleep had been dreamless, a small blessing for which she was absurdly grateful. When she descended the stairs to the tavern proper, she saw that it had filled in the time she was sleeping. Bolin had to shoulder his way through a crowd of sell-swords and wenches to meet her at the foot of the stairs.

“Korra!” He cried. “You’re awake!” He made to hug her, and she squirmed away.

“Bolin,” she greeted, swatting off his second attempt at a hug. “You ready to quit this city? I’ve packed what supplies we have with us. We can retrieve our mounts and saddlebags from that inn by East Gate, and be gone from here before midnight.”

Something flashed in Bolin’s eyes, and he opened his mouth. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Lin thinks it’s best if we lay low here for a few days. Says there’s no safer place in the city, and the streets are still crawling with Amon’s men.”

Korra thought on this a moment. “Mako’s not going to like it.” Bolin hummed his agreement. “But...” she mused, and her face broke out into a grin. “I wouldn’t argue a chance to drink myself into a stupor and poke a few whores.” 

“Glad to see you’re feeling better!” Bolin laughed and pounded her on the shoulder. “Now go make nice with Asami. She’ll be staying with us.” 

Korra frowned, and gave Bolin an exaggerated wounded look. “Make nice? I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

“Dreadful,” said Bolin. “Now go make nice.”

“In my defense, she _did_ give me two black eyes.”

“In hers, you _did_ try to rob her.”

“ _Psht_.” Korra made a dismissive noise and waved him off. She made to shoulder past him, but Bolin stepped into her way with pleading eyes and that ridiculous pout of his. “Okay, _okay!_ I’ll _try_ to be nice. But I don’t like her, Bo. There’s something about her that puts my teeth on edge.”

They pushed their way through the crowd, and Korra grabbed a handful of plump ass as she passed. She winked over her shoulder at the woman - a voluptuous, red-haired thing with tits nearly pouring out the top of her bodice. She flashed a gold piece, and mouthed the word _later_. The whore gave her an appraising look, top-to-bottom and back again, and then smiled.

They made their way to the bar, where Mako and Asami were talking quietly. 

“I wish you wouldn’t, Asami. It’s too dangerous. Come away with us. We’ll go back to the Earth Kingdom, scratch out a living.” Mako was swaying slightly in his seat, and his words were thick with drink. 

Korra’s stomach dropped at the invitation, and she fought back a scowl. She didn’t like that this woman had so quickly infiltrated her small group of companions. 

She plopped down on the other side of Mako, snatched the cup of spirits from his hand, and drank deep. She grimaced as the liquor burned its way down her throat. He gave her an exasperated look, and took the near-empty drink back. “Ass,” he muttered under his breath. She grinned gamely at him and ruffled his hair.

“I appreciate the offer, Mako,” said Asami, “but you won’t change my mind. I’m staying.”

“Actually, brother, that was something I wanted to talk to you about.” All eyes turned to Bolin. There was an edge of nervousness in his voice that made Korra uneasy. She was fairly certain she knew what he was going to say next. “...I’m staying too.”

Mako’s eyes opened in surprise, and he spat the last of his drink across the bar. Lin neatly sidestepped the spray of spirits and continued cleaning a glass. 

Mako looked like he wanted to argue, but he was doing that thing again, opening and closing his mouth. He seemed so taken aback that words escaped him. It could also have been the spirits, Korra supposed. He wasn’t the sharpest when he was in his cups. His eyes were a little glazed with drink, and his eyebrows were knit together with confusion. 

“Absolutely not,” said Korra, saving Mako from the daunting task of speech. “We’re getting out of here at the next possible opportunity.” Bolin opened his mouth to protest, but Korra talked over him. “ _You_ seem to suffer delusions of heroism.” She poked him hard in the chest, and he rocked backward on his heels. “I have no such affliction.” 

Mako, finding his voice again, stood on wobbly legs and grabbed Bolin by the arm. “I need to talk to you,” he said, and led Bolin into the crowd. 

Korra was left alone at the bar with Asami and the scowling barkeep. Poor company, those. So she ordered a drink and picked at her fingernails with a knife to pass the time. The whole while Asami watched her over her own wine, eyes betraying nothing of the mind beneath. It made Korra feel like she was being dismantled, piece by piece, and it added to the growing list of reasons she did not like this interloper.

Finally, her discomfort getting the best of her, she turned to Asami with a frown. “ _You_ put this foolishness in his head.”

“I most certainly did not. Bolin has foolishness in spades. He needs no help from me,” said Asami with an innocuous smile. Lin made a small grunt of agreement from behind the bar. 

Korra opened her mouth to argue, thought for a second, then settled on a shrug. There really was no arguing that. 

Time passed silently between them after that. Korra quaffed a tankard of ale, then another. She switched to spirits, in an attempt to deaden the sharp edge of her emotions. In her mind’s eye she could see the three of them swinging from the gallows. The price of treason was steep, too steep for Korra’s taste. She was very fond of her hide, and was not thrilled about the prospect of risking it for a city full of strangers and a hopeless cause. 

After a while, Bolin returned with Mako by his side.

“Please tell me you talked some sense into this idiot,” Korra said to Mako.

Mako, looking wearier than she had ever seen him, shook his head. His shoulders slumped in defeat. Bolin stared at her with a determined set of his jaw and a silent pleading in his eyes. “He’s staying,” said Mako. 

“Well he can stay alone, Mako! We need to get out of here. I didn’t sign up for a revolution. This was supposed to be a simple job.”

“I can’t leave him. He’s my brother.” Korra gaped at him, and then twisted her face into a scowl. “Please, Korra, don’t look at me like that. You know I can’t leave him.” 

Bolin put a warm hand on her shoulder. “These people are suffering, Korra. They need us. Stay and fight.”

“This is not my fight! These are not my people!”

“Have you any people?” The question surprised her. And she turned to Asami. The way those green eyes bored into her made her skin crawl. 

“I have no people, and I prefer it that way,” she spat. 

And then she looked to Bolin, who wore a wounded expression, and Mako, who looked sorrowful, and realized that they were steeling themselves for a farewell. Her heart lurched, and the sheer magnitude of that pain surprised her. These two were the only thing she knew of family. One short year, and they had managed to worm their way past her walls and settle firmly in her heart. Like an infection, she thought bitterly. Like a cancer. It made her vulnerable, weak, and in that moment she realized that she needed them more than they needed her. The thought of losing them stoked the flames of panic, and she cursed loudly and colorfully at her own sentiments.

“Fuck me with a spear, I can’t believe this is happening!”

Bolin’s face lit up at her outburst, and he pumped his fist in the air. “You’ll stay and fight with us?” The hope in his eyes was heartbreaking. 

“You’re my people,” she said with feigned indifference and an exaggerated shrug. She sincerely hoped they didn’t understand the gravity of that statement. For the last five years she had wandered the Kingdoms, nearly broken by the weight on her spirit. It wasn’t until she met the brothers that she knew any sort of comfort. They were her people. They were her everything. And she couldn’t decide if she hated or loved that they had become so crucial to her health and happiness. 

Bolin scooped her up into a hug, and this time she was not quick enough to squirm away. He spun her with flourish, and his rich, rolling laughter stirred something pleasant deep within her. She tried very hard not to smile, but a small turn of her lips betrayed her.

He did not release his embrace even when he set her feet back on the ground. She felt Mako’s hand on her shoulder, and then his arms around her too. Bolin shot a hand out and snatched Asami’s wrist, dragging her unwillingly into the embrace. Korra couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about that. She just stood there, and let the warmth of the only two people she cared for wash over her. 

“Koh’s bloody asshole,” she grumbled into Bolin’s shoulder. “We’re all gonna die.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revolutions are dreadful boring.  
> Korra is a royal douche.  
> And payback is a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Gods, sorry this took so long. Lots of real life-ing went on these past few weeks, and that’s an activity I sometimes engage in. 
> 
> This chapter is twice as long as the others though, so yay on that. Not a whole lot actually happens other than character development and tavern shenanigans. Sorry that I’m not sorry at all.

In her defense, the first time Korra walked in on Asami bathing had been entirely unintentional.

The same could not be said for the second or third times, but after discovering the _only_ thing that seemed to crack Asami’s infuriating composure, Korra sincerely felt that she couldn’t be blamed for having a bit of fun.

They had been a week in the _Tree of Time_ , confined to the tavern proper or the single room they shared between the four of them. Lin’s orders - she didn’t want them wandering the streets and possibly garnering the attention of the local authorities.

Korra was going stir crazy, and she wasn’t the only one. Bolin had taken to inventing ludicrous drinking games to pass the time - this one involving a trout, an empty barrel, and Ginger’s ample cleavage.

Korra had been one fish-swing away from victory when Bolin stumbled and sloshed his entire drink down the front of her tunic right as she was readying an underhand throw. The trout slipped from her fingers and went sailing across the room in a great arc. It landed on the lip of the barrel, and then slipped off the outside and hit the tavern floor with a _slap_.

“Uhg! Bo!” she cried, wringing out the front of her tunic. Ale splattered loudly on the rough timber floor. “Son of a whore! I’m soaked!”

“And you lost!” yelled Shia, pumping a fist in the air.

“Only because Bolin pushed me!”

“Aye, but you still lost! Now drink to my victory, you rat bastard!” Shia tongued the open sore at the corner of her mouth and grinned wolfishly.

Korra wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Only if I get to drink from Ginger’s tits.”

“Sorry, love, _that_ is an honor reserved for the victor. Rules is rules.” Shia laughed, her dark eyes shining. “Ginger! Bring that bosom here! I have a thirst!”

Korra sighed and took a slug of her ale. Then she turned to Bolin and fixed him with an exasperated look.

“Sorry,” Bolin said sheepishly, grinning from ear to ear. “If it would make you feel better, you can hit me with the fish.” He turned his head and offered her a clean-shaven cheek.

She glared at him but couldn’t help the smile pulling at her lips. “I’m not going to hit you with the damn fish. But I am going to go get changed. This is not the kind of wet I like to be.”

“Can’t help you there, friend,” he laughed.

“I can,” said Ginger, materializing from the crowd and pressing herself against the sopping wet of Korra’s clothes. One hand came up to tangle in Korra’s chestnut hair while the other gave her ass a suggestive squeeze. “You didn’t seem to mind being wet when I slipped my fingers into your-”

“- _Coinpurse_ ,” said Korra. “And now I’m broke.”

“Ha!” Bolin barked. “Is _that_ what you call it?”

“No, you ass. My _actual_ coinpurse.” She reached down and grabbed Ginger by the ass, hoisting her up. Ginger giggled, hiked up her dress, and wrapped her legs around Korra’s waist. “As much as I enjoy our little dalliances, and I _do_ , you’re going to bleed me dry, woman. I’ve damn near spent every last copper on you.” She deposited Ginger on a nearby table, and the whore leaned back on her elbows, but kept her legs locked firmly around Korra. Ginger raised an eyebrow and rolled her hips, grinding her center against the front of Korra’s pants. A pang of desire shot through her core, hot and sharp as a knife-blade, and her hips bucked forward of their own accord. “Uhng. Stop that.”

“Only if you want me to,” said Ginger, smiling coyly.

“Gods, you know I don’t. You giving it away for free now?”

“Keep dreaming.” She swatted Korra’s arm playfully. “But you know I’m worth every bit of it.”

“That you are,” growled Korra, and she gave the woman a hungry smile. “But that doesn’t change the state of my finances. Perhaps another time.” Ginger let out a disappointed little _harrumph_ and released Korra from her grip. Korra took a step back, but not before patting the whore affectionately on the cheek. Then she put a finger on her own chin and chewed her lip in thought. “Unless... Hey Bolin, can I borrow a gold piece?”

“No.”

“Mako?”

Mako looked up from a game of dice at a neighboring table. “Fuck off, Korra,” he said.

“Well that settles that,” she grumped. “I’ll be down in a bit. I need to get out of these clothes.”

Ginger shrugged and slipped off the table, pushing her way into the crowd.

Korra turned toward the stairs, but called back over her shoulder. “Save yourself for me!” She heard Ginger laugh, high and bright, like it was the funniest thing she had ever heard.

Smiling dumbly and shaking her head, Korra ascended the stairs. She hummed a sea shanty quietly to herself as she went. Her footfalls were light and had more bounce than usual. Despite her clothes - cold and clinging and uncomfortable - she was in high spirits. It had been three days since her last waking dream, and longer since her last nightmare. Even more uplifting was that Asami - that infuriating _enigma_ of a woman - had been absent most of the afternoon. She was probably in the ale cellar with Lin, discussing strategy or swapping fluids or whatever the fuck they got up to. Those two had been thick as thieves from the start, and Korra didn’t trust either of them as far as she could spit.

Thinking on Asami brought a frown to her face.

Asami was always gracious, but it was a polished, practiced sort of civility. Her smiles never reached her eyes. She laughed at all the appropriate times, but that laugh was entirely disingenuous. When she watched Asami, Korra was reminded of one of those straw men that farmers would construct in their fields to ward off crows and other pests. There was no life there, only a hollow imitation, and that unnerved her but could not account for the intensity of her animus toward the other woman.

If Korra was being honest with herself, which she was sometimes capable of doing, she could see that her dislike for the woman stemmed from her own fear. She was afraid that the delicate balance of their group would be disrupted. She was afraid of the unknown - that ponderous, grinding march of change. Most of all she was afraid that she would be replaced, that she _had_ been replaced.

Korra wasn’t stupid. She knew that people found her manners repugnant. She knew that her explosive anger pushed others away, and quickly. A small part of her believed that this was for the best - the same part of her that believed that everything she touched turned to dust, and that those who were unfortunate enough to cross paths with her were destined to be hurt, or worse.

In those rare moments when she bothered to think about it, she found herself genuinely surprised that Bolin and Mako had weathered her abuses for so long. Every day she wondered when they would leave. Surely it was only a matter of time. And the addition of Asami to the group only served to underline her own inadequacy as a friend.

She didn’t like the way that Asami and the brothers mingled with an ease and comfort bred from long association, an ease and comfort she had never known, not in the entire year she had spent with them. She didn’t like her impeccable social graces and effortless beauty, or the way that no matter _how_ Korra needled the other woman - and she needled frequently and with gusto - she couldn’t crack that mask of courtesy.

She didn’t like how she would catch Mako sneaking furtive glances at Asami’s ass when he thought no one was looking. (Not that she could blame him, really. It was an enviable ass). She especially disliked how Mako’s poorly-veiled infatuation stirred up all the unresolved emotions she had over their own brief and tumultuous relationship - sorrow, and bitterness, and no small amount of self-loathing over how quickly she had burned that relationship to ash. It still surprised her that their friendship had survived their romance, if only just.

And when Korra realized these things, she felt petty and cheap. She even felt a little bit of guilt for being so prickly with a woman who had only done her imaginary harm. The problem was that guilt - like most of her emotions - evolved quickly into anger. And Korra’s anger was wont to explode outward, with or without her consent.

Thinking on this, Korra grabbed distractedly for the handle and pushed her way into the room.

The scene she walked in on surprised her so thoroughly that she froze, halfway through doorway, and gaped stupidly.

Asami was cross legged on the floor and stripped to the waist. She had a wet rag pressed to her neck. Her tits were full and round - smaller than Ginger’s, and perkier - and tipped with pink nipples that poked proudly out in the chill of the room. Small rivulets of water trickled over and between her breasts, and Korra’s eyes followed them down to where they pooled in Asami’s bellybutton and disappeared into the waist of her pants. Before she could linger too long, her eyes snapped up to Asami’s face, and she found it frozen in shock - wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

With an undignified little _eep!_ Asami dropped the rag and crossed her arms over her chest. Her face cycled through a flurry of expressions - surprise and embarrassment and anger featuring prominently - and she spluttered out a string of broken syllables that Korra assumed were meant to be words. A pink blush was creeping up Asami’s neck, and Korra could feel a heat in her own cheeks as well. She thanked the spirits for her dark complexion and the yellowing bruises that she was fairly certain hid her flush.

Of the two, Korra was the first to recover her composure. She pulled her face into a cocksure smirk, and raised a challenging eyebrow.

A wave of self-satisfied delight washed over her. For the first time since they had met, Korra had finally gotten Asami express something other than _polite_. And not just a twinge of irritation or a grumpy little frown. The unflappable Asami Sato was a spluttering, flustered mess. The whole situation brought Korra more satisfaction than was decent. It tasted of victory, and she relished every second of it.

Closing the door behind her, Korra swaggered across the room and began rummaging through her rucksack. She whistled a jaunty little ditty just for the fun of it, and because she was afraid if she didn’t do something with her mouth she might explode in a fit of laughter, and that would have thoroughly ruined the moment. All the while she watched Asami out of the corner of her eye, gauging the other woman’s reaction.

Finally, Asami seemed to gather her wits. “Do you _mind_?” she said, and her voice betrayed disbelief and irritation.

Korra stood up and tossed her change of clothes on the bed, turning to face Asami. “Not at all,” she said as nonchalantly as possible, though she couldn’t help the wicked smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Please, continue.” And she gestured with her hand toward the bucket of water and the rag.

“Oh no. Not with _you_ in here.” Asami’s mouth was a tight line, and her delicate eyebrows pulled together angrily. She shifted a little, and hugged herself tightly, which had the effect of accentuating her already distracting cleavage.

Korra grabbed the hem of her tunic and peeled it off in one fluid motion, letting the garment drop to the floor with a wet _slap_. “Not with _me_ in here? Please,” she said with an incredulous snort, “don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen plenty of tits in my life and yours are certainly not the finest, not by a long shot.” Which was possibly the biggest lie Korra had ever told. She began to unwind her chest wrap, and as it fell from her, Asami looked away. “Besides, this is my room too. And I have need of it.”

“You can use it when I’m done. Get _out_.”

“Why? Do I unnerve you?” Korra began winding her new wrap, all the while watching Asami who was obstinately refusing to look directly at her.

When Korra had finished rewrapping her chest, she tentatively sniffed her spare tunic, violently recoiled at the smell, and then shrugged it over her head anyway. It was foul, but at least it was dry. Asami made a small noise of distaste that was somewhere between a gag and a scoff.

“You disgust me,” said Asami.

“Your words cut like swords, Asami,” said Korra, teasingly. She fisted both hands on her hips and stared hard at the other woman, who was sneaking sideways glances at her and squirming uncomfortably.

“ _Gods!_ Can you just _leave_ so I can dress?”

Korra hummed and hawed for a bit, making a show of mulling it over. Finally she let loose an exaggerated sigh. “Only because you asked so nicely.” She made her way to the door but paused with her hand on the knob and looked back over her shoulder. Asami watched her with hard eyes, but her lower lip was pushed out just a tiny bit, giving her expression the cast of an irritated pout. It was almost... endearing. Korra felt a pang in her chest which was either affection or indigestion. She surmised it must be the latter, because the former didn’t make sense. Still, it took an undue amount of effort to maintain her cocky smirk and ribbing tone. “This was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

“ _Out!_ ”

Korra made it halfway down the stairs before the laugh that she had been holding in burst forth. It swept over her like a tidal wave, and once she started she couldn’t stop. She laughed so hard that she was almost able to ignore the fluttering behind her ribcage and the rising heat in her cheeks. Almost.

 

 

 

\-----

The second time Korra walked in on Asami was few days later, and entirely intentional.

Initially she hadn’t planned on repeating that little stunt, but Asami’s mask of civility had returned in force, and no matter what Korra did or said she could elicit only polite smiles and polished courtesies. If anything, Asami was being even kinder than before, and it was driving Korra mad.

So one afternoon when she was finding tavern life particularly tedious, she ascended the stairs to seek out another entertaining altercation.

Korra burst through the bedroom door with a bright smile on her face and a salutation on her lips. “Asami! Fine afternoon we’re having, isn’t it?”

She was pleased to find that she had caught Asami in the same compromising position as before, only this time the other woman skipped right over flustered and plowed straight into irate. She was so angry that she didn’t even bother covering herself, which was an unexpected bonus.

“Out!”

The wet rag whipped across the room and caught Korra square in the face. It stung, but only a little, and Korra blinked the water from her eyes before grinning gamely. Angry Asami, she decided, was even more fun than flustered Asami.

“My, aren’t we a little-”

“ _OUT!_ ” Asami grabbed the half-empty bucket and rose to her feet, chucking it hard in Korra’s direction. Korra bounced lightly to the side, avoiding the bucket and most of the splash.

There was a fire in those green eyes, fierce and feral. It occurred to Korra that she had never seen Asami look quite so _alive_ before this moment, and that sent a strange but pleasant thrill racing down her spine. When Asami reached for the brass candlestick, though, Korra decided it was time to beat a hasty retreat.

She bolted out the open door and skidded around the corner into the hall. The candlestick crashed into the wall behind her and then clattered to the floor. She took the stairs down to the tavern two at a time, laughing uproariously the whole way. When she reached the bottom she heard the door slam so violently that it shook the timbers.

That evening Asami joined the companions for dinner as she did every night, and that was when Korra knew that she had secured her victory. The other woman made smalltalk with the brothers and answered Korra if asked a direct question, but her responses were terse and there was an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before. For most of the evening the corners of her mouth were turned down in a delicate little frown.

Korra navigated dinner as if nothing had happened - laughing and joking, spearing chunks of meat off of Bolin’s plate when he wasn’t looking, cat-calling Ginger from across the common room. She was aware that Asami had hardly taken her eyes off her the whole evening. Even when she wasn’t looking in her direction, Korra could feel the heat of that gaze prickling over her skin. It was much the same way Asami normally stared - precise and calculating, like Korra was a puzzle to be solved - but there was something new in those eyes that caused a rising unease to niggle at the edge of her awareness. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and flushed for reasons she didn’t understand.

Still, though, if a little discomfort was the price of victory she would happily pay it.

\-----

Revolutions, it turned out, could be dreadful boring.

Lin had ordered the four of them to stay indoors while she _made arrangements_ , and _set things in motion_ , and contacted _her people_. She made various other confusing and obtuse statements, but Bolin didn’t trouble himself with the finer points of shaping a revolution. His strength was on the battlefield, not in the war-room.

Still, though, it would have been nice to see the sun every once in a while. Lin hadn’t even allowed them to retrieve their possessions from East Gate. She had sent Garryn in their stead. It brought Bolin comfort that Boulder - his great black destrier - was now stabled nearby, but he wasn’t even allowed out to see him. He desperately missed the beast, and would have liked to feed him an apple and pat his snout.

To be honest, the way Bolin had imagined this revolution was a far cry from the reality. He had pictured sunlight glinting off of burnished steel, the thunder of war drums, colorful banners whipping in the wind. He had imagined there would be fighting, at the very least.

He certainly hadn’t imagined he would be confined to a tavern for nearly a fortnight, passing another uneventful afternoon by balancing small stacks of copper coins on the side of Garryn’s sleeping head. The doorman was slouched over the table, snoring loudly into a growing puddle of drool.

The tip of Bolin’s tongue peeked out of the corner of his mouth, and he screwed his face up in concentration as he leaned forward and carefully plunked another coin into the short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Garryn snorted but did not stir.

Mako approached and pulled out the chair next to Bolin. “You shouldn’t do that,” he said disapprovingly as he slouched into his seat. “You know he already doesn’t like you.”

“Garryn doesn’t like anyone,” said Bolin. “Besides, this is fun. You should try it.”

Mako frowned, unamused. “No thank you,” he said tersely. He watched Bolin place a few more coins, and Bolin soon found himself irritated that his game was now being punctuated by exasperated sighs and brooding little scowls.

Mako had been especially peevish of late, and Bolin supposed it was probably from lack of sleep. After all, a man needed rest like a sword a whetstone. Mako would wake each morning griping of back and neck aches, no doubt caused by sleeping on the hard wood floor. Bolin thought it absurd that he refused to share the bed with the rest of them. It would’ve been a tight fit, certainly, but doable.

Of the four, Bolin seemed to be the only one who was not upset by their sleeping arrangements. Even Asami was uncomfortable, though none but the most observant would have been able to discern that; Asami was always outwardly gracious.

They shared a single room with a large, lumpy bed that had no more fleas than usual. It had been all that their pouch of platinum could afford them. (“I run a tavern, not a charity,” Lin had said with her usual lack of sympathy.)

After some debate it was agreed that Bolin would sleep in the middle. He was fine with this arrangement, partly because he never said no to a good cuddle, but mostly because Korra had more than once threatened to push Asami off the bed if she were forced to sleep next to her.

Maybe he would offer Mako his spot tonight, though he sincerely doubted Mako would accept. Bolin was having a difficult time understanding why his brother was making such a big deal out of this. It isn’t like he hadn’t slept with _both_ of them before. Never at the same time, of course, but still.

Bolin sighed and steeled himself against his brother’s foul mood. He resolved to enjoy his game regardless.

Ten minutes later he was nearly out of room on Garryn’s head, but he only had a few more coppers left so victory was well within reach. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Korra making her way toward them. She stopped a few feet away and surveyed the table. Her face broke into a grin, and the mischievous glint in her eye betrayed her intention to thoroughly ruin his game. Bolin cursed quietly under his breath. He had been so close, too.

Without warning Korra slammed her fists on the table and then danced lightly out of the way. The table lurched so hard that tankards and cups rattled, and one fell over, spilling its dregs over the tabletop. Garryn’s head jolted and bounced once against the hard oak. He sat up with a curse, and coppers pattered on the floor and table in a tinny, tinkling rain. His grey eyes were bleary with sleep, and confusion and fury warred on his grizzled face.

The doorman shot to his feet so quickly that his chair clattered to the ground, and before Bolin could blink he was hauled bodily over the table by the neck of his tunic. “I will gut you like the swine you are,” rumbled Garryn, voice so deep and thunderous that Bolin could feel the reverberations in his own chest.

Then the doorman shoved him roughly back and stalked toward the bar, enormous fists clenching and unclenching the whole way.

“You know,” said Korra as she returned to the scene of her crime, “I think that is the most I’ve ever heard him speak.” She picked up Garryn’s chair from the floor and plopped down into it.

“You nearly got me killed,” Bolin scolded, but he smiled despite himself. Spirits, that was the most excitement he’d seen in days.

“He wouldn’t dare. Garryn is more afraid of Lin than the both of you, and that’s saying something. You two piss yourselves every time she frowns at you.”

Bolin held up his hands to ward off her judgement. “Lin’s a scary woman,” he said simply. Then he glanced over Korra’s shoulder and saw Asami emerge from the stairwell. “Oh! Asami! Over here!” he called with a sweeping wave of his arm. Asami smiled when he hailed her and started in their direction. Then her eyes flicked to Korra, who was twisted around in her seat and watching the other woman’s approach. Asami frowned, hesitated, and then took a seat at an empty table a little way away. Bolin frowned and Korra sniggered under her breath.

Mako huffed grumpily and folded his arms over his chest. “What did you do to Asami?” Mako asked, eyeing Korra with open suspicion.

“Why do you assume I did something?” she asked, a smile pulling at her lips. She began collecting the coppers into a pile and flicking them one at a time in Bolin’s direction. He tried to catch them in an empty flagon and they plinked hollowly against the tin whenever he was successful.

“Because we know you,” said Bolin.

“I didn’t do anything to her, I’ll have you know.”

“Korra,” Mako sighed and pinched his eyebrows together with thumb and forefinger, “you agreed that you would _try_ to get along with her.”

“I did try.” Mako gave her a dubious look, and Bolin coughed into his hand. “I _did!_ ...Just not very hard and not very long.”

“What _exactly_ is your problem with her? Is it because she gave you a black eye?” Mako asked. He was clearly getting irritated. There was a vein in his temple that looked like it was set to burst.

“Two,” corrected Bolin.

“ _That_ was a fluke,” said Korra, waving a finger for emphasis. “My problem with her is... um...” She scrunched up her face in that way that meant she was thinking. Bolin thought it looked more than a little painful. “Okay! She doesn’t swear! I can’t trust a woman who doesn’t swear,” she said matter-of-factly.

Mako groaned and dragged a palm down his face.

“And another thing! She bathes _every day_. Who does that?”

“I’m sorry, let me get this straight,” Mako clenched is jaw a few times. “You don’t like her because she’s _too clean_?”

“It’s _obscene_ ,” Korra said seriously. “Really. Nobody should be that clean. Bo, pass me that bread.”

He pushed the stale loaf over to her and she began tearing chunks off and dipping them in her ale.

“I can’t deal with you today,” Mako huffed angrily, rising from his seat. He stalked across the tavern and plopped down next to Asami. Korra turned and watched him go, stuffing her cheeks in contemplative silence.

Bolin watched Korra’s gaze settle on the artificer, and saw her frown around a mouthful of food. She stared a little longer than necessary, he thought, and he could sense the change in her mood intuitively. There was a darkness that hung over her, subtle and nearly imperceptible, where there had been only mirth a moment before.

Korra had always been rough around the edges, crass and combative. She was the kind of woman who took some getting used to, and it wasn’t unusual for Bolin to have to play mediator between her and, well, everyone. But when it came to Asami, there was clearly more going on than Korra’s usual social ineptitude. He’d never seen her be this mean to anyone, not since Mako at least.

And that was when the realization hit him like a punch in the gut. It was so _obvious_ that he was surprised it had taken him this long to figure it out. He almost smacked himself for being so dense.

“Holy Raava sweet-mother-of-light! You _like_ her!”

“ _What_?” Korra inhaled a mouthful of bread, and some must have gotten lodged in her throat because she began coughing and pounding her chest with her fist. Bolin stood, walked around to her side, and smacked her on the back hard enough to knock her forward into the table. She coughed twice more, swallowed, and shot him a baleful glare.Tears had collected in the corners of her eyes and she swatted them away as she struggled to regain her breath. “ _Like_ her? That’s ridiculous!”

“But it’s not! That’s why you’re so mean to her! Remember back when you liked Mako, and you put all those spider crickets in his bedroll-”

“Bo, it’s not-”

“-Or that time in Ba Sing Se when you kicked him in the jewels-”

“That was an accide-”

“-Or that time you shaved one of his eyebrows while he slept!”

“Okay, that was on purpose. But this isn’t the same. I can’t stand her!”

Bolin opened his mouth to argue, but before he could get a word out a shrill whistle split the air, and he looked up to see Lin remove two fingers from her mouth. The ruckus of the tavern died to a low murmur, and Lin’s voice carried - sharp and clear - over the noise.

“All right, you whoresons, listen up!” barked Lin. “We’re being raided within the hour. You four, get in your barrels.” She pointed with first and little finger at Bolin and Korra, and then at Asami and Mako.

“How do you know we’re getting raided?” asked Bolin. “Also, I don’t want to get in the barrel! Do I have to?” He could hear how petulant he sounded, but didn’t care. Panic was beginning to claw in his chest. He _really_ didn’t like the barrels.

Asami came up beside him and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It will be over before you know it,” she said. “And she’s a barkeep; she knows everything.”

“Bet your ass I do. Now get in the goddamn barrels. Garryn, check their room and make sure nothing is amiss.” The surly doorman rose from the bar and thumped his way over to the staircase. “The rest of you assholes try to look innocent.”

As the murmurs of the tavern crescendoed into their usual low roar, Lin led the four into the ale cellar. Bolin eyed the barrels suspiciously, and they gaped back at him, beckoning him with malicious intent.

They had practiced this once before, and even the biggest of the barrels was a tight fit for him. Entirely too tight. The others had to grease him with lard to get him out. It had been one of the most terrifying experiences of his adult life, spending a half hour stuck in that damn drum, and now he would likely be confined to one for gods knew how long. He felt like he was going to be ill.

Mako, Korra, and Asami hopped into three unassuming ale barrels among the dozens that lined the walls of the cellar. Bolin’s mocked him cruelly, and he shuffled nervously before it. Lin began to pound the lid onto Mako’s with a small wooden hammer, and Bolin jumped with each resounding _crack_.

Asami crossed her arms over the lip of her barrel and rested her chin atop them. She smiled at him kindly. “It’s going to be okay, I promise,” she said with such surety that he almost believed her. “We’re all here with you. Go ahead and get in.”

He gulped, nodded bravely, and threw one leg into the tiny wooden prison.

Lin had to push him down with all of her weight to get him settled. He groaned sickly, his stomach a churning mess. He was a tangled knot of knees and elbows, and the wood slats pressed against him on all sides. When the lid eclipsed the torchlight of the cellar, a small whimper escaped him unbidden.

He heard Lin’s voice from above, muffled but carrying with it all of her usual command. “Nobody needs to die today,” she said. “Now make like an ale barrel and shut the fuck up.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” whined Bolin.

“Shut up,” came a stifled voice to his left. He thought it might have been Mako’s.

Bolin sucked in a deep breath, and fought to suppress the panic that was threatening to overtake him. His heart crawled up his throat, and he swallowed it back down with middling success.

“This is how we die,” he said brokenly to no one in particular.

“Shut _up_ , Bolin,” said Mako and Korra.

And so he did, and the next two hours lasted a lifetime. In the end, though, he survived both the raid and his captivity. He even survived the undignified greasing that facilitated his escape.

\-----

In hindsight, the third time Korra walked in on Asami had been a terrible mistake.

She had agreed to make more of an effort to get along with the other woman, if only to prove Bolin wrong about his preposterous assumptions. And she _was_ going to try, truly, but after this one last hurrah. Besides, tavern life was grievously dull. She had to do something to pass the time.

So one afternoon she excused herself from her conversation with the brothers on some silly pretense and ascended the stairs to their room, some twenty minutes after Asami had done the same.

She reached for the handle, grinned, and pushed open the door.

“Asami! Have you seen my-” and whatever Korra was going to say died on her lips, just as all rational thought fled her mind.

She had expected to find Asami bathing. She had expected to burst into the room all smirk and swagger and to revel in her power to so thoroughly unnerve the other woman. This was her game, after all, and she expected to _win_.

She had not expected _this_.

Asami sat on the bed, leaning back on her hands, stark naked. Her legs were crossed, one over the other, and a small patch of gleaming black hair peeked provocatively up from their juncture. Her breasts were on full display, peaked with stiff pink nipples. Her eyes were dark and sparkled challengingly, and her smile was something entirely dangerous.

Korra’s mouth had gone bone dry, and her tongue felt like it had swollen to fill the space. She was so utterly confused that she just stood there dumbly, hand on the knob, and blinked. A heat was creeping up her neck, and an ache had settled between her legs, and if she had possessed the capacity for thought at that moment, she would have cursed her traitorous body for reacting in such a way to her sworn rival.

Beneath the surprise and the confusion (and the embarrassing and very obvious desire coursing through her) was a small niggling of irritation. This was not what was supposed to happen. Asami was supposed to be the flustered, stuttering mess, not her.

“Did you need something?” asked Asami, smirking. And Korra wondered if her voice had always been as soft as sin, or if this was a new development.

Korra was going to say something clever, but then Asami tossed her head gently, and her black hair flipped over her shoulder. The movement made her breasts bounce, and her hips shift, and exposed the pale column of her throat. And, _gods_ , the whole thing set desire clawing in her core. Korra bit down on her lip to stifle a groan, and when she finally did open her mouth all that came out was, “Nng. Hnnph?”

And then Asami shifted so that she leaned back on one arm. The other hand came up to rest on her hip, fingers idly ghosting across the creamy skin there, and Korra couldn’t help that her eyes followed the movement, or that her hands wanted desperately to follow her eyes.

She tried to look away, but couldn’t. She tried to muster her usual panache, her mask of confidence, but couldn’t. She tried to form words, but her mind had fled and her body was reacting of its own accord.

“I thought that might be a little more than you could handle,” Asami said casually, and she rose from the bed and she began to saunter toward Korra. Korra’s eyes flicked down unbidden, and her stomach clenched at the teasing glimpse of Asami’s mound. “It really hadn’t taken that long to figure out your game, you know.” She flipped her hair again, and Korra swallowed thickly. Asami was only a few steps away, and Korra’s hand clutched spasmodically at the door handle and her feet stayed rooted to the floor.

“I get it, I do. You like to get a rise out of me. Gives you a sense of control, maybe. I don’t know and I don’t care. If you still want to play this game, fine. I’ll play. But know that I will not be pulling any punches. Honestly though? I’d rather not. So how about you quit with this nonsense, because clearly you’re in over your head.” Asami drew up in front of her, and her smirk was a wicked, toothy thing now. She drew a delicate finger up the side of Korra’s neck and applied a light pressure to the underside of her jaw, slowly urging Korra to close her gaping mouth. “And if you’re done gaping I would appreciate it if you would leave, and not come back.”

There was a moment of silence, and it was clear that Asami was waiting for some sort of response. When none came, she set a hand high on Korra’s chest and gave a firm push. “Goodbye, Korra,” she said sweetly, and Korra stumbled back a few steps into the hall, and her hand - still clutching the doorknob - pulled the door shut in front of her.

She blinked. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She pried her hand off the knob.

Behind the closed door she heard Asami laugh. And it occurred to Korra that she had never heard Asami laugh before, not truly, not like _this_. It was such a wide open sound - unguarded and spontaneous and genuine and everything that Asami _wasn’t_. The timbre of that laughter stirred a warmth within her that had nothing to do with the heat in her cheeks or the ache in her core.

Her mind was still foggy, but a mild irritation was gnawing at the edge of her awareness at having been so thoroughly outmatched. She felt foolish. Despite this, she smiled on her way down to the tavern proper, though she had no idea why.

\-----

Asami was insufferably smug that night at dinner.

Korra had not fully recovered from their previous encounter and bumbled through the meal, stuttering and flailing. If anything, she became more flustered as dinner wore on. The amusement dancing in those green eyes and the self-satisfied smirk that Asami wore only made things worse.

Asami was clearly enjoying herself, and Korra was surprised to find that she almost welcomed the change in the other woman, even if it was at her own expense. She seemed so much more genuine, and so much less irritating. Still, though, Korra was not entirely thrilled at her own uncharacteristic nervousness. It was making intelligent speech impossible, so she put on her best grumpy face to discourage the others from talking to her.

Mako was drunk and seemed entirely oblivious to the tension. He was drunk more often than not of late, and it was beginning to worry Korra. Bolin, ever attentive, was the first to pick up on the shift in group dynamics.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked, gesturing with his knife at Asami and Korra. Korra shot him a scowl that she hoped would end the conversation. It didn’t.

“What do you mean?” Asami asked, all feigned ignorance and knowing smile. Korra shot her a scowl too, similarly ineffective.

“Something’s different about you two. Something happened.” He shrugged and speared a chunk of meat with his knife, then shoved it into his mouth and cheeked it. “I want the truth,” he said sternly.

It was hard to take Bolin seriously under normal circumstances, and doubly so when he was stashing food in his cheeks.

Korra looked sideways at Asami, wondering how much of their encounter the other woman was going to divulge. She squirmed a little and tried very hard to become as small as possible. It was bad enough to lose at her own game, worse still to have her embarrassment paraded around the table as the evening’s entertainment.

“The _naked_ truth?” Asami asked, green eyes sparkling. Korra cursed quietly under her breath.

“Please,” said Bolin. Even Mako leaned in, interested piqued.

“There isn’t much to tell,” Asami shrugged. “Korra came up to our room today, and we had a conversation. We’ve come to an understanding, I think. Korra profusely apologized for being so disagreeable these last few weeks. Isn’t that right, Korra?” she asked, and patted the top of Korra’s hand with one of her own. Korra recoiled from the touch like from a hot stove.

She looked around the table and noticed that the other three were looking at her. Asami with amusement, and the brothers with puzzlement. It dawned on her that they were waiting for a response.

“Mmm yes. Talk. Yes. There were words. All good.”

Asami laughed and the brothers blinked and Korra hoped with all sincerity that the floor would swallow her up. She was saved from further embarrassment with the arrival of the tavern’s rowdiest resident.

“Fine evening, you filthy twats!” Shia greeted as she took a seat at the long table. She let out a ponderous belch and ran a hand through the tangled, mousy nest that was her hair.

Korra let out a sigh of relief. No one drew attention like Shia, and Korra was grateful for her company for that fact alone. Shia would be sure to dominate the conversation and occupy all eyes and ears. That, and Korra genuinely liked the offensive little fuck.

Like Garryn, Shia’s primary purpose at the inn seemed to be that of door guard - vetting all people who wanted to enter against some unspoken list of Lin’s. She was older, pushing her fortieth year if Korra had to venture a guess. She had the ruddy complexion that was not uncommon for the mixed lineages of the Republic and southern Earth Kingdom. Her hands and eyes were never still, and she was as talkative as Garryn was closed-mouth. She was also crass and rude and a generally distasteful human being, and Korra understood those things and liked her all the more for them.

Shia and Garryn were the only other regular residents at the _Tree of Time_. They shared a room down the hall from the companions, and they had this unnerving way of communicating with long stares and cocked eyebrows rather than words. It betrayed some sort of shared history, and Korra thought they might be siblings. Or fucking. Or both.

Shia turned her shining black eyes on Asami and flashed a toothy grin.

“Word in the tavern is you’re leaving for Faverhill on the morrow. Now how’d you get Lin to agree to that, I wonder? I thought the rules was you four was to stay in the tavern. Republic City’s most wanted, and all that. You been stoking her forge to soften her up a bit?” Shia made a rude gesture with her hands, just in case her meaning had been lost on the other woman.

Asami ignored the innuendo and fielded the question with her usual uncanny grace. “I may have mentioned a substantial amount of platinum concealed at my shop in Faverhill. I imagine housing four of ‘Republic City’s most wanted’ is an exceptionally expensive affair. Lin agreed to let me fetch her some more money, along with the rest of my personal effects. There are certain items I have need of if I’m to be of use in this revolution.”

“Wait,” Mako spoke up, looking more alert though no less drunk. “You’re going to Faverhill? Why didn’t you tell us?” He frowned peevishly and folded his arms in front of him. Mako always was one to take everything personally.

“Just for a few days. I didn’t think you’d be interested in joining me. It may be dangerous.”

Bolin nearly leapt from his seat in excitement. “Asami, can we? I would kill to see the sunshine again!”

Mako made an agreeable grunt. “I’ll go,” he said. That surprised Korra. He was usually so cautious, and his paralyzing fear of Amon was certainly not a secret. Maybe he was drunker than she thought.

“Fine with me,” said Asami. Korra had been looking at Mako - still trying to wrap her mind around this uncharacteristic recklessness - and hadn’t noticed Asami’s hand until slender fingertips ghosted across her knuckles. Korra jerked in surprise, knees bumping the underside of the table. “Korra, would you like to come?” Asami asked in a purr. Her eyes had that dangerous light to them again.

“What?”

“To Faverhill. Would you like to come?”

Gods-be-damned, the woman was fucking with her. Her eyes were all smokey and her lips were all pouty and she was doing it on purpose, Korra knew it. She would never live this down, not if she couldn’t rein in her nerves.

“Sure. I mean, sure. Why not?”

“Aye, so Lin wants her money. That I understand,” interjected Shia. “But why not send Garryn? Or myself? Would be the safer option.”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to, not unless you’re an artificer.”

“Oh I see! One of them special magic locks? What do you have to do, bathe in the blood of an ox and dance naked to Yue the damned moon goddess? I’d pay a polished platinum to see that, I would.”

“Oh, nothing so exciting,” said Asami lightly, with a flippant wave. “One would have to have the _gift_ and know the correct incantation.”

“I’ll tell you where you can stick your _gift_ , love,” ribbed Shia, but there was no malice in her words and she had a plucky grin on her face.

The rest of dinner continued without incident. Asami was more playful than usual, and even joined Bolin and Shia in a tawdry tavern song. Mako continued to drink and brood and drink some more. He eventually fell asleep on the table, and Bolin suggested various pranks they could play on him but quickly lost interest when it became clear that Korra was in no mood to play along.

Throughout the evening Korra’s disposition turned dark and her thoughts turned inward, and inward was a dangerous place for her to be.

She had spent the past few weeks trying hard to avoid the unpleasant thoughts that had been bouncing around in her head. She fucked them away and drank them away and fought them away. And those things had worked for a time, but were less and less effective with each passing day.

Korra liked things that she could touch and see and control. Feelings were different, though. She had no control over her feelings. Sometimes they slipped through her fingers like wisps of smoke and sometimes they buffeted her like a furious gale and sometimes they were like riding a runaway horse, and in those times it was all she could do to hold on for dear life, lest she be dragged by the stirrup.

So when the four retired to their room for the evening, Korra bypassed the bed and went to stand at the open window and look pensively out into darkened streets of Republic City. She leaned on her palms and closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but the thoughts wouldn’t quit and her feelings were a tangle. Everything she had been avoiding had chosen this moment to manifest.

“Korra! Come snuggle,” Bolin called, and she turned to see him hold open their threadbare blanket in invitation. From behind his broad shoulder Asami’s head popped up and she looked at Korra questioningly. On the floor Mako groaned sickly and hunkered deeper into his cloak.

“In a bit, Bo. I need to be alone.”

Bolin hummed and nodded and wrapped himself in the blankets without debate. He shushed the question that was forming on Asami’s lips, and Korra felt a wave of gratitude for the burly squire.

It had been him who had taught Korra to say that: “I need to be alone.” It meant a hundred things: I feel like I’m going to explode; I don’t know what’s wrong with me; I am sick to death of myself and don’t want to lash out at you. She had never been able to articulate these things on her own, but Bolin had deduced enough of it and come up with a simple signal for her to use when she didn’t know what else to do. It didn’t stop the runaway horse, but it did keep other people from being trampled.

And so she stepped up on the sill of the window and hoisted herself over the eave of the roof. Crawling up over the ridge, she scooted feet first down the dockside pitch so that she could look out over the bay. The silhouettes of ships bobbed in the night, black masts sprouting from black waters against the star-stained sky. A balmy summer breeze danced playfully across her skin and brought with it the smell of salt and sea and woodsmoke.

Korra expected her thoughts to settle on her most pressing concerns - the looming threat of revolution, or the danger of their trip to Faverhill tomorrow, or even the confusing and now intriguing twist in her rivalry with Asami. They didn’t though. Her thoughts flew back into her past, before her travels around the Earth Kingdom, before her time on the compound. Back, and back further still. Back before this cancerous anger had settled in her soul. Back to her home on the southern tundra, and the war that burned it from her.

She had been half a girl then, and had thought herself a woman grown.

She was in her eleventh year when the Northern ships came in the night. The war had lasted thirteen months, and it had been fought on the tundra flats beyond the city and her father had made certain she saw none of it. The siege had lasted another four, and she saw every moment of it, father or no.

She remembered the wails of hungry children echoing hollowly in the halls of the palace. She remembered how small and frail her mother had seemed. She remembered the subtle edge of fear in her father’s voice - a deep voice, a chief’s voice, a voice that should not know fear. She was twelve by the time they were besieged, and forbidden from the war-room. Too young, her father had told her, and she had argued until blue in the face but it had done no good. Tonraq and the elders would not tell her anything. But she was not a child anymore, and so she watched and listened and heard more than people knew.

She heard the stewart tell the captain that their supplies were all but gone, that they could feed the soldiers for another two months, but only if they starved the frail and old and injured. The captain told the stewart that if they were to starve, they would all starve together, and Korra thought that fair.

She heard whispers of pestilence, some sort of creeping sickness, and one day the cook’s boy came up coughing and the next day he disappeared. His name was Tukna and he was ten, and they had been fast friends since they were knee-high. Others disappeared too, and Korra wasn’t sure if the sickness had taken them, or if the guards had taken them before the sickness could spread. She thought it was probably the latter, and her heart lurched but she steeled herself against the sorrow. She was nearly a woman grown and would be chief one day, and sometimes chiefs had to make hard decisions. The pestilence could kill them all, she knew, well before they starved. Still, though, she missed Tukna terribly, and that night she cried into her sleeping furs and hoped no one could hear her.

She heard the way the men whispered of Unalaq, their eyes bright with insanity or terror or both. Necromancer, they called him, and they swore he led an army of the dead. They begged the chief to surrender, to plea for mercy. Tonraq had told them that he would die first, and that they would die too. They could stay and die later, or they could leave and die now. He told them in his chief’s voice. All of the men stayed, but some would curse his name and spit when they thought no one was listening. Korra didn’t understand at the time, and she was very angry with her father. Surely there had to be another way, some treaty or armistice or truce? He had always taught her that life was more valuable than pride, and that peace was preferable to war. This was not the father she knew. She didn’t understand until years later, and when she did, she wished she didn’t.

She remembered her flight in the black of night, spirited away through enemy lines by the White Lotus at her father’s command. She fought them the whole way, so fiercely that they had to bind her. She did not want to go, not without her father, not without her mother. There was battle, and many of her guards fell bleeding in the snow, and when they finally broke through they were but a handful. And during that flight she discovered that the terrified men were not insane, because she saw with her own eyes the red-stained ice and the dead that would not stay dead.

The South surrendered four days later, after she was far out at sea with the surviving White Lotus. It was some weeks before they made it to the compound deep in the heart of the Earth Kingdom and shortly after they arrived a hawk came bearing news of her family. A grim-faced White Lotus guard told her in solemn tones that Unalaq had conquered the South and that no one in the palace had been spared - not her mother, not her father, not the cook or the captain or the stewart. He told her he was sorry, and she didn’t know if he was or not, and she didn’t care.

Nine years later Korra sat on the gabled roof in the balmy Republic City night, hugging her knees to her chest and shivering despite the heat. She let her mind take her where it would. She was too weary to fight it anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asami gets an apology.  
> Bolin gets a pet.  
> And more people die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I need more colorful curses for Korra to use and I thought, hey! Y'all probably know a few good ones!
> 
> Leave a comment with a curse that would fit the theme of this AU. If I use it, you'll get a mention in the notes. :D

_“Toph!”_

_The boy pushed his way through the underbrush and burst into the small clearing, shaking off the branches that snagged at his robes. The sunlight dappled his face - a young face, a face that had yet to see its first beard - and he cast about for his companion. Toph sat on a mossy log in the center of the clearing. She had one foot propped upon the opposite knee, and was fiddling with her toes._

_“Go away, Aang. Can’t you see I’m busy?” She didn’t bother looking up from her foot._

_“You’re picking your toenails.” He took a seat on the log and ran a hand through the plush carpet of moss_

_“Exactly. Busy. Go away.”_

_“But I’ve started Seeing!”_

_“Good for you,” she said flatly, and she turned her half-lidded blind eyes in his direction. “This isn’t like the last time when you thought you had the Sight? That time you drank that cactus juice and thought you ‘Saw’ a three-legged lemur humping Sokka’s head?”_

_“Ha! I almost forgot about that!” He grinned so big it near split his face in two, but then his eyes got serious and his smile retreated and when he spoke again his voice was soft. “No, no cactus juice this time. I Saw, I swear I did. I had a vision. A great black castle against a blood-stained sky, and a dragon who swallowed the moon, and then the sun flared so bright that it scorched away everything. I could feel my body burning away, and my spirit was scattered like so many ashes in the wind. It was terrible.”_

_Toph was silent for a long time after that, and Aang fidgeted nervously beside the blind girl. Finally he broke the silence with, “What do you think it means?”_

_“I don’t know,” said Toph._

_“But you have the Sight. Couldn’t you train me?”_

_“Seeing isn’t like the other_ gifts _. It’s not something you control, only interpret. And no two Seers are the same. The Sight will show you what it wants, when it wants - future, past, present, fantasy, possibility, energy, intent. Your job is to discern. Not a simple thing, twinkletoes. Not something I can really help you with.”_

_He frowned and watched the slanting planks of sunlight filter through the canopy. Beside him Toph resumed picking her toenails. He thought about Seeing, and about learning to heal with Katara, and about his air magic and about gods and men and prophecies. After a while, he spoke again._

_“Can’t you see auras? All the time? Do you think I could learn to do that?”_

_“If the prophecies are to be believed, you’re capable of anything, you freakish little fuck.”_

_She gave him a straight-arm punch to the shoulder. He grimaced and rubbed his arm. There was going to be a bruise tomorrow, he was sure of it._

_“Okay, so how do you do that? How would I learn?”_

_“I don’t know, Aang,” she sighed, agitated. “This isn’t something I can teach you like Katara and her healing. There are no incantations, no rituals, no way to describe how to reach out with your intent to grasp your energy, because Seeing doesn’t work that way. You either See or you don’t.”_

_“How am I supposed to learn, then?”_

_“On this, twinkletoes? You must walk your own path.”_

_Aang frowned. “Walking my own path is lonely. And scary.”_

_“Pansy,” said Toph, but she scooted sideways and slung an arm around him. He leaned his head against her shoulder._

_“I don’t understand why I was chosen,” Aang said quietly. A great sorrow settled on his spirit, and not for the first time he wondered if the god might have made a mistake. “I’m just a nomad boy. I never wanted this. I_ don’t _want this.”_

_Toph didn’t say anything to that, but she leaned against him in silence and after a while he felt a little less alone._

 

\-----

Korra blinked and ground her eyes with the heel of her palm. A bout of vertigo sent her head spinning and for a moment was afraid she would slide out of her saddle. Below her Naga nickered and shook her head.

She could see the brothers in her peripheral, one on either side of her. Well up the road Asami sat a borrowed horse and rode alone.

Her visions had started up again, two so far today. And they were more intense, more detailed, and sometimes it felt like she _was_ the man (boy, teenager) with the tattoos. The faces that had haunted her for a lifetime now had names. Aang and Katara, Sokka and Toph and Zuko.

She was going insane, she was certain of it. She was stark raving mad.

Aang? Aang of the Hundred Year War? Aang who slew the Dragon Lord? But these were just children’s tales, weren’t they? Parables meant to teach morality, or stories to pass the time on long winter nights. She wasn’t sure. This was the lore of the Republic, and she had grown up hearing of ice giants and the Great Winter and Turraku the Brave.

“Copper for your thoughts,” said Bolin. He sat astride Boulder and rode abreast of her. It was godawful hot, and not even noon, and she thought he must be sweltering in his armor. If he was he didn’t show it. He seemed obscenely happy to have a reason to wear it at all.

She hesitated. Bolin and Mako knew that she Saw, but she had never discussed the details of her visions with them. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, but she’d been hiding it for so long and changing seemed an impossible task. She had never trusted anyone with that, and she had spent five years running from it herself after her escape from the compound.

It had taken her months to admit to the brothers that she was a refugee of the civil war, and they had assumed she had been a peasant and she had not bothered to correct them. It was common knowledge that there were no survivors from the South’s aristocracy, and she was thankful for that. It was useful when you were trying to disappear and the world already thought you dead. Still, the falsehood weighed heavy on her soul, and she considered again that she may want to let the brothers know her, _truly_ know her. One day, she told herself. One day soon.

“What do you know of Aang?” she asked instead.

“Aang of the Nomads? Aang the greatest mage that ever lived?” Bolin asked. If he was taken aback by the question he didn’t show it.

“That’s the one,” she said.

“Children’s tales,” said Mako from her other side. His borrowed horse was a mopey looking thing, and plodded along without spirit, but Mako himself seemed to be feeling better than he had in weeks. True he looked a little gaunt, and he kept sneaking nips from his wineskin, but he wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t brooding, and Korra could content herself with that. “Myths from the Age of Dragons, hundreds of years ago. Our father used to tell us stories when he came home from his merchant travel.”

“Oh, I loved those stories!” gushed Bolin. He let his reins drop so he could wiggle his fingers. “Did you know that Aang made the Si Wong Desert in a day? There used to be a mountain range there, and it was impassable. No man had ever survived the journey and to go around would take weeks. Ozai the Terrible was laying waste to Ba Sing Se, raining fire from his dragon, so Aang called down the wrath of Raava and ground the mountains down to sand so that he could cross and do battle with the Dragon Lord.”

“They were good stories,” said Mako. “Those were good times.”

“Mako’s favorite was the one about the stars. He would ask for that one, and gods help us if father wouldn’t tell it, because he would cry and cry.” Bolin mimed crying by cranking his fists by his eyes, mouth opening in a silent wail.

“I did not!” Mako yelled across to Bolin, scandalized. Korra briefly considered extricating herself from between the two. This seemed like it could devolve quickly into a brother-fight.

“You did! You loved that story!”

“I mean, I may have liked that story, but I didn’t cry!”

“He did,” Bolin said in a cacophonous whisper.

“I was _eight_.”

“He was in love with Katara. Still holds a torch for her, bet my hammer on it.” Bolin clasped his hands together and fluttered his eyelashes.

“Gods, Bolin. It was a good story, and I was a boy,” Mako said indignantly, but there was a smile in his amber eyes.

“What’s the story?” Korra asked, chuckling.

Bolin cleared his throat and began. He had a gift for storytelling, an intuitive feel for inflection and pause, and his voice was dulcet and soothing. Korra smiled and closed her eyes.

“The summer after Aang defeated the Dragon Lord, he set out to build a castle for Katara, his ladylove. It took him five years, all told, and he didn’t sleep until he finished. He built it with his own two hands from stones he gathered from all the Kingdoms, and every stone was mortared with magic, and when he was done he called the stars down from the sky to light the palace.

“Katara thought it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, but when she saw the starless sky she wept, and Aang felt a great sorrow and knew he had done wrong. He returned the stars to the sky, but he couldn’t remember where they all went, and so he made a map of his heart in the heavens. That’s where the constellations come from: The lovers, the castle, the wanderer, the five fellows, Gyatso the sage - each star a memory and a promise, a promise that he would love her until the Dragon of Time swallowed the world. And when she saw the heavens she wept with joy, and he asked her to marry him that same night.”

Mako hummed his approval, and his amber eyes were half-lidded and focused far away. She thought that in that moment he was probably a boy again, huddled around the hearth with the family he lost too young, and she felt a surge of affection for the man that boy had become.

Korra thought on her visions, and thought on the stories. Her head was beginning to hurt. She had so many questions, and even the White Lotus had been able to answer only a few of them, and those answers vague enough to be useless.

“Why is it that Aang could make the desert in a day, but it takes him five years to build a castle?”

“They’re stories, Korra. They don’t have to make sense,” said Mako. He looked at her, closer than he had before, and his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Didn’t sleep well, is all.”

Mako looked like he didn’t believe her with his face puckered all dubiously like that, but he held his silence. She didn’t even need to look at Bolin to know he didn’t believe her one bit.

They rode together without speaking for a while, and a breeze kicked up. Korra closed her eyes and relished the air against her skin. Her tunic was clinging to her with sweat, and she felt like she was boiling in her leathers.

“You didn’t really apologize to Asami, did you?” asked Bolin after a while, gesturing with his chin to Asami’s silhouette ahead.

“Well... No. I didn’t.”

“Maybe you ought to,” he suggested. His eyes were kind and he smiled tentatively at her.

“Do you think?”

“Yes,” said Bolin.

“Please,” said Mako. “No more fighting. We have enough enemies as it is.” He took a long swallow from his wineskin. His fingers shook a little as he capped it, and she pretended not to notice.

 

\-----

Theoretically it was possible to ride from Republic City to Faverhill in a day, if you rode a good horse into a bad lather. Not a one of them was willing to do that, or risk the attention such a flight would garner, so they had camped a few hours south of Faverhill and on the second day approached the outlying farmland in the late morning.

Asami rode ahead, seeking out solitude in order to sink back into the recesses of her mind. Lin had promised her that she would introduce them to the other main players upon their return, and discuss with them the details of this game. With the revolution on the brink of boiling over, Asami found herself unusually contemplative.

She thought on the events that brought her back to the city she had lost.

Three years ago her father sent her to Shu Jing in his stead to haggle for rare components for their trade. It had been a last minute decision. An important council matter had come up, and without notice he put her on a ship with a chest of platinum and wished her fair winds and better business. She boarded that ship two days before The Purge.

Often she wondered if he had some inkling of the violence to come, but she supposed he mustn’t have. Otherwise why wouldn’t he have fled with her? It was simply an uncanny twist of fate, and because of that she was alive and he was not.

Gods, it had hurt. The grief had consumed her. It was like being six again, after the wasting death had taken her mother. But then she had her father, and together they shared the burden of grief. Now he was gone and she had nothing. Not her home. Not even Mako. Gods, he was probably dead. And they had fought a week before she left, and she hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye. Still, she didn’t think even home or Mako could have filled the hole that her father left in her heart. He was the only family she had left.

She had cried for days, cried until her throat and eyes were raw, until she retched and heaved, until she couldn’t cry anymore.

And then one day she awoke and there was a great, yawning pit where her grief had been. That had been over three years ago and she had not cried since.

Her life became a vacant, empty thing - painted in greyscale. Food tasted like ash on her tongue. She continued to invent, to create and imbue, because she didn’t know what else to do, but she went about her work mechanically and it brought her no joy. She traveled the Fire Kingdom on the coin her father had sent her to sea with, searching out rare components and new techniques. She took a few men to bed in her travels, and one woman, and each time she thought she felt a spark the fire was snuffed before the night was over, and she again felt nothing.

She entertained fantasies of vengeance, of raining death on the man who had taken everything from her. In her mind she killed him a thousand times over. And that thought was the only thing that brought her any semblance of peace - that hate her only source of joy.

Eventually she grew tired of going through the motions. She stopped inventing, she even stopped dreaming of vengeance, and started dreaming instead of giving herself to the Wheel of Rebirth. It would be so easy. There was a plant, blackveil, and it grew wild in the forests of the Fire Nation. It could be steeped and drunk, and was said to be as painless as falling asleep.

She wasn’t sure why she never did. She entertained the thought frequently enough, but could never muster the energy to follow through. And one night she lay awake in bed and knew that she would either kill herself or kill Amon, knew it with the sort of clarity that only comes at death’s door.

So six months ago she set out for the Republic, masquerading as a traveling tinker under a false name, and settled in the town of Faverhill to bide her time and gather intelligence. And her life was still a vacant thing, and that gaping pit inside still swallowed up all the color in her world, but at least she had a purpose, and that was a distinct improvement in her opinion.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t mark the rhythmic _clip-clop_ of hoofbeats until they were almost upon her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Korra trotting up on her white mare.

In an instant her mind flashed back to the gambit she had pulled the day before last, the turning point in their unspoken battle of wills, and allowed herself a small smile. That had turned out better than she could have hoped.

It had been a gamble. She was not entirely certain it would work, and some part of her prepared for the possibility that Korra would have laughed it off, completely unfazed. Or even worse, the possibility that she would have taken it as an invitation, and would have advanced on her with mischief in her smile and fire in those blue, blue eyes. She told herself that she would refuse, that she would laugh in the other woman’s face and turn her down with some glib remark, and either way it would have proven a point.

But there was a small part of her that thought that maybe she wouldn’t have refused, that she would have welcomed the encounter. Korra certainly was easy on the eyes, with her copper skin and hard planes of muscle, her bright blue eyes and dazzling lop-sided smile. Her hygiene left a little to be desired, true, but she supposed no one was perfect. And gods knew no one had gotten Asami to _feel_ so much in near three years.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? All of her other lovers had produced that same spark, and before the night was over it was gone, and she was but a shell again. Sometimes that made the emptiness that much worse - the juxtaposition of feelings she could only graze but could not grasp. She was terribly tired of her pattern, so god-awful weary of it, and the dread of waking up next to Korra and feeling _nothing_ was somehow more compelling than her fledgeling desire.

The white mare pulled up beside her and settled into a walk. Her rider kept her blue eyes forward, and for a time the two rode together in silence that wasn’t exactly comfortable, but not unpleasant either.

After a few minutes, Korra’s voice broke the quiet.

“I uh, I wanted to talk to you,” she said.

“I’m listening.”

Korra set her jaw, determined. Her eyes were focused, but kept flicking away from Asami’s gaze, and it seemed almost as if she were riding out to battle she looked so grim.

“Okay, right, I’m no good at this sort of thing. Talking. Words. My mom used to say I was born with a sword in my hand and a foot in my mouth, and sometimes I think she was right. I can be hard to get along with, and I’m not really certain why I do the things I do. Uh, that sounds foolish, let me start over. I can be a little rough around the edges, I think. I guess. I don’t know. I’m sure Bolin warned you.”

“I believe his exact words were, ‘a raving lunatic, but she sort of grows on you.’”

Korra laughed at that, a spontaneous bark that rang clear in the summer morning. “I can’t really argue that,” she said. Then she was quiet for a few moments and Asami watched as the other woman collected her thoughts. Korra was chewing absently on her lower lip, and her eyes were focused far over the horizon, eyebrows drawn together just slightly.

It was uncanny how transparent Korra could be, so wide-open, and it filled Asami with no small sense of wonder that someone could feel so _completely_ all of the time. She thought she must have been like that at some point and tried to remember what that was like, but couldn’t.

Finally Korra broke the silence again, still staring off into the distance.

“I didn’t mean to be so disagreeable. I really, really didn’t. But you’re too pretty and too nice and Mako and Bolin like you better and that’s really irritating, you know? And would it kill you to swear once in a while? And if Shia has to go to the market for one more bar of soap she’s going to garrote you in your sleep, I swear by the spirits she told me so herself. And then there’s-”

“Korra?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you trying to apologize?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

Throughout her speech she had been frowning worriedly, but then the corner of her mouth twitched. She snorted once, twice, and then it was all over. She laughed so hard her whole body trembled, and Naga stamped nervously below her and shook her head.

“Gods, I _am_ doing a terrible job, aren’t I? Here, let me try again.” She took a few steadying breaths between bouts of laughter, and when she spoke again she seemed much more relaxed, and much more herself, and had no trouble meeting Asami’s eye.

“I’m sorry, Asami. I’m sorry I’ve been such an insufferable twat these past few weeks. You didn’t deserve that. And fuck me sideways but I don’t know what got into me. It won’t happen again.”

Asami smiled at Korra’s colorful choice of words, and when she opened her mouth she meant to simply accept the apology, but the words settled on her tongue and rolled around there. What came out instead was, “I can’t say I was entirely pleased with your behavior, but I would be lying if I said that wasn’t the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

She hadn’t meant to say that, to so brazenly admit that she had enjoyed their little game, but Asami was quickly learning that Korra’s earnestness and spontaneity were infectious.

Korra’s grin was cocky and she raised an eyebrow at Asami. “Yeah?”

Gods, that smile. It was almost enough to make Asami blush.

“Yes.”

They rode together for a few more minutes. The road now skirted the edge of the forest, and she knew that around the next bend the town of Faverhill would be nestled fast against the fringe of the woods.

“I suppose we got off on the wrong foot, what with the robbery and the fight,” said Korra. She seemed much more relaxed now that her apology was over, and she smiled in that wide-open way of hers.

“I would agree. How is your nose, by the way? I see the bruising is gone,” Asami commented wryly, but she couldn't keep the smile out of her voice.

“Healing quite nicely, thank you very much. Shall I apologize for the robbery as well?” Korra asked, dripping sarcasm.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” replied Asami.

“Very well. My sincerest apologies, m’lady,” said Korra with a pretentious affectation as she leaned as far toward Asami as her saddle would allow, arms cast out to either side in a silly approximation of a bow. “I will make a valiant effort not to rob you in the future, though I make no promises.” There was that grin again, cocksure and lopsided.

“Fair enough,” said Asami. “I’m sorry I _nearly_ broke your nose. Should you rob me in the future, I will make sure my aim is more true.”

Korra laughed at that, and _spirits_ she had never met a woman who laughed so often and openly. Not for the first time she felt a stirring behind her ribcage, a subtle tug, as if a string were connected from her heart and directly to Korra’s smile.

 -----

Mako took a sip from his wineskin as they plodded down the hard-packed road that led through the center of town. They hadn’t seen any sign of Amon’s men and they had been on the road a day and a half. Still, he was wary, and the wine helped calm his nerves.

Bolin kept sneaking glances at him and frowning every time he took a swig. It was starting to irritate Mako. He wasn’t drunk, not nearly, and had no intention of being so. It’s just that the wine helped with the shaking (it was only nerves, after all, no reason to be alarmed), and by the gods he was a grown man and could have a little wine if he so wanted. He would probably pull Bolin aside later, he decided, and reassure his brother that he was fine. He was more than fine. He hadn’t felt this good in weeks.

Faverhill looked different in the light of day, bustling and lively. Some townsfolk hailed them as they passed, some nodded, some whispered among themselves.

Asami would be recognized, she had warned them. It was a small town, and though they knew her only by her alias, all the village folk would have heard of her capture and no doubt some of them would report her return. Mako watched them and frowned as they rode down the main thoroughfare.

They reined up outside of Asami’s shop and dismounted beside the gaping entryway. The door had been ripped off its hinges and lay just inside.

Asami was the first to enter the shop, and she took a lantern from one of her workbenches and lit it. Mako followed her, and looked around the gloom. The place had been thoroughly ransacked - benches upturned, shelves ripped down, gadgets littered about the floor.

Behind him he heard Bolin whistle. “Wow. What happened here?”

“Amon’s men, looking for my work.” said Asami, as she turned slowly to survey the damage. If she was surprised she didn’t show it.

“Perhaps,” said Korra. “Or that fellow who hired us. Mako, what was his name? Tiktok? Ikton?

“Iknik,” said Mako.

“Iknik _Varrick_?” Asami’s eyebrows rose just a hair, but her face remained otherwise impassive.

“Maybe? We didn’t get a surname. Odd man, talkative, ridiculous little mustache. He uh, he was hanging from the rafters when we met him. Like a bat.” Mako decided not to mention that he had been naked (‘clothes constrict the creative process’) because it didn’t seem like a relevant detail.

“He was naked,” offered Korra helpfully. “His dangly bits hanging out.”

“Gods, that’s him. He always did resent that I was the better artificer. But burglary? That’s low, even for Varrick.”

Bolin poked his fingers together and shuffled nervously. “We took his money. You don’t think he’ll come after us, do you?”

Asami waved off Bolin’s worry with a flick of her wrist. “Oh I wouldn’t worry about him. Varrick is a slug, but he doesn’t have the stones to set foot in the Republic. Probably why he sent you three.”

Asami led them to the corner of the room, and handed Korra the lantern. She bent down and heaved an overturned workbench off of the cellar door. Opening the trap, she extended her hand back without looking and Korra placed the lantern in it.

Together they descended the stone stairs. The lantern light illuminated a root cellar with rough dirt walls, plain and unassuming as any other. It looked to have been ransacked as well. Potatoes rolled underfoot, and some had been squashed to a pulp under boot heels. A bag of flour was cut open and its contents spilled across the earthen floor.

Mako watched as Asami approached the far wall and once again handed Korra the lantern. Korra took it in silence. Placing a palm against the dirt, Asami began to murmur in an ancient language. The words filled the small space, and settled on his skin, and every hair on his body stood on end. His heart jumped in his chest. Her _gift_ was so different from his, and it had always been beautiful to watch.

On the dirt wall blue runes faded into life until the space was lit with a ghostly glow. And then they blinked out of existence all at once, and when Korra raised the lantern to Asami’s shoulder, there was a small room where the wall once was.

It was only big enough for one, and Asami entered and began to rummage around. Mako couldn’t see from where he was standing and so he shuffled his feet in the flour and took a sip of wine.

“There, I think that’s all of it,” said Asami, returning to the cramped cellar. Behind her, the dirt wall reappeared and if he hadn’t just seen otherwise, Mako would never have been able to tell it was anything but a wall.

Asami had a crossbow slung over her shoulder, and a small rucksack, and in her hands there was a small silver-bound chest and what looked like a leather glove with intricate platinum workings sewn into the palm and knuckles.

Bolin leaned closer in the lamplight to examine Asami’s loot. “Oh! That’s the thing! Look, Mako, the thing we were supposed to steal! What is it?”

Asami rolled her eyes at that, but smiled a small half-smile. “It’s a weapon,” she said. “Here, hold this,” and she thrust the chest into Korra’s arms, who just barely managed to juggle it along with the lantern. Then Asami pulled the glove on, flexed her fingers, and the whole contraption erupted into a spiderweb of blue lightning. “Took me forever to make - rare and expensive components, and it was unreasonably difficult to imbue, developed the incantations myself. It’s one of a kind. Small wonder Varrick sent you to steal it.”

“Great. Looks dangerous and fancy, Lady Sato. Now put it away so we can be gone. I want to put my heels to this town,” said Korra, but her tone was playful and Asami smiled in response.

Bolin elbowed Mako in the ribs, harder than was necessary, and cocked his head toward Korra and Asami. He looked pointedly from one to the other, then wiggled his eyebrows at Mako and smiled that big and foolish smile of his. Mako couldn’t figure out what he was so excited about. They were getting along for once? Hurrah.

Asami flexed again and the lightening crackled away into nothingness. Then she stowed the glove in her rucksack.

“Just one more thing, and we’re ready to go,” said Asami. She reached out and took the chest from Korra and put it on the ground. “Bolin, come here.”

Bolin blinked in her direction, and then turned a questioning look on Mako, who shrugged his shoulders. He hadn’t understood the woman three years ago. He didn’t know why Bolin expected it to have changed since.

“I remember you always talked about wanting a pet,” Asami continued as Bolin knelt next to her in the dirt. Korra leaned in to get a better look and Mako did the same, craning over the hunched form of his brother. “I remember you saying that your parents never let you have one, and then you were on the streets and, well, you had to feed yourselves. Then you started squiring for the Templar and they didn’t allow pets in the barracks.” Mako wasn’t sure, but he thought Asami’s smile might have been a little hesitant, almost unsure, in the dim cast of the lantern’s light.

“So I made this for you,” she said, and she flipped open the clasps on the lid and opened the chest. “I was going to give him to you the day you were knighted, but, well, that never happened...” and as Asami’s voice trailed off two ethereal blue eyes blinked on in the dark of the chest.

A strange, metallic chittering sound spilled forth, and in the flicker of lantern light Mako could see movement. The blue eyes flickered on and off a few more times, and then a flash of orange and cream fur shot out of the chest and clambered up Bolin’s leg and onto his shoulder.

Bolin yelped in surprise and fell backward onto his ass, coming to rest heavily against Mako’s legs. Then he began to laugh as he pried the chittering creature off his shoulder and held it out in front of him to inspect. It was a construct, clearly wrought in the likeness of a fire ferret, and covered with patches of fur that had been expertly placed to hide most of the mechanical under-workings. A dim glow that was the same color as the eyes flickered weakly from each of the creature’s joints.

“He’s amazing!” squealed Bolin as the creature began to gently nibble on one of his fingers. “I shall call you Pabu! And you shall be my stalwart companion!” He leapt to his feet, and as Pabu skittered back up to his shoulder he wrapped Asami in his massive arms and lifted her, swinging her feet back and forth as he laughed into her shoulder. “Thank you! Asami, thank you!”

And Mako watched them and felt a warmth bloom in his chest that had nothing to do with the wine. Bolin was easily excitable, true, but this was something altogether different. There was unadulterated joy on his brother’s face. He reminded himself to thank Asami later, and in the moment was content to enjoy the peripheral happiness.

He took a nip from his wineskin in silent celebration.

“All right, Sir Squire, pack your rat and let’s go. We have miles ahead of us,” said Korra. She clapped Bolin once on the back and then made her way toward the stairs.

The four of them stopped by the inn on the way out of town and asked after Mako’s horse, the one they had left there weeks before. The innkeep told them he had been stolen (sold, most like, thought Mako), and Korra patted Mako’s shoulder in commiseration. She knew how much he had loved the beast. It wouldn’t be easy to replace Druk.

He drank to Druk’s memory.

They asked a few townsfolk which was the quickest way to the border, loudly and often, and then left in late afternoon by the north road toward the Earth Kingdom. It wasn’t until Faverhill was well out of sight that they cut west through the farmland to take a circuitous route back towards the city.

 

\-----

Korra was ready to be back.

They had made a fireless camp under the stars the night before, surrounded on all sides by rolling green, and while it was nice to see sun and stars again Korra was wary of the next leg of their journey. The approach to Republic City by the east road was where they would be most vulnerable, and she was itching to get it over with.

It was another hot afternoon, and they had three hours left of travel before they reached the outer walls. They crested a hill and that was when they spotted the armed and mounted group. Korra cursed and reined up. They had been so close.

There were eight of them, men and women both, and one flew an oxblood banner that bore Amon’s rune. The enemy fanned out as they approached hailing distance, six of the soldiers forming a half circle meant to ensnare the group. Two hung back. Probably archers, Korra thought.

When they were fifty yards out, the enemy drew up and one man’s voice rang out over the distance. “Lay down your arms and come peacefully! Amon will show you mercy.”

“A pox on Amon’s mercy,” Asami swore quietly. “What now?”

“Now we fight,” said Korra. Mercy was not in the cards for them, and not a one of them was fool enough to believe otherwise. Escape was also not an option, not in this hilly plain with no cover, not with Mako and Asami on horses that had seen more stable than field.

“Keep your horse in hand!” Mako warned. She gripped Naga’s reins a little tighter, but didn’t fear for her control. Naga and Boulder were bred for battle. It was the borrowed horses she worried about.

Mako conjured a flame in his palm, and his horse stamped and started, but he murmured soothing words to it and that seemed to help. Asami’s horse sidled sideways, and there was terror in its eyes. The movement brought her alongside Korra.

“Give Mako a wide berth,” Korra said to the other woman. Asami’s mouth pressed into a hard line, and she nodded grimly as she fingered her crossbow. Outwardly she was the picture of composure, and her eyes were hard and calculating as they surveyed the enemy. But then she turned her gaze on Korra, and Korra saw the fear. Without thinking she reached out and brushed the back of Asami’s hand, the one that was holding the reins. She wrapped her fingers and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Hang back, and put a few quarrels through those archers, if you have that kind of range on that thing.”

On her other side Bolin mumbled his customary prayer before battle, fist pressed against his heart. Then he opened his eyes and set his teeth. He unslung his hammer from his back and his shield from his saddle. Pabu climbed from inside the saddlebag and shimmied up to his shoulder, chittering excitedly, his ethereal glowing blue eyes blinking on and off.

“You ready, Korra?” he asked.

“I was born ready,” she said, and she grinned as the fire of battle gained purchase in her heart. “Let’s do this.”

With a tap of her heels and a “Hya!” for good measure, Korra urged Naga into a gallop. They shot forward like an arrow from a bow, Naga’s hooves kicking up sod as they pounded the ground toward the enemy line.

Fire exploded from behind her, and a jet passed so close on her left that she could feel the blistering heat of it. One of the enemy before her took the brunt of the blast, and fell smoking from his saddle. She let loose a triumphant holler at the visible fear that rippled through Amon's men. A battlemage was a terrible foe to behold, and she thanked the spirits for Mako and his fire.

Still she pressed on. Naga’s head lurched low with each stride.

One of Amon’s men turned his horse to meet her with a charge of his own. She lowered her quarterstaff and angled it like a lance in his direction. The butt of it caught him in the chest, and he was unseated and hit the ground with a crunching thump. The force of the impact jarred her staff from her hand. Just as well, she thought, it wasn’t designed for such and she didn’t have room to wield it well when mounted. She drew her blade, and it blazed in the afternoon light.

On her right Bolin and Boulder tore through the enemy line. His hammer stove in a shield, and from the agonized wail that followed Korra assumed it crushed the arm behind it as well. She watched long enough to see him take a glancing blow to his breastplate, and Korra grimaced at the close call before wrenching her attention back to the fray.

She reined in and circled to meet another rider, a woman no older than herself. Her sword shivered off the other’s, and then her parry took the enemy in the side, up under her arm. The woman slumped sideways from her saddle.

Shouts filled the air, and the ring of steel, and the whiz of arrows and bolts. The smell of ozone and burning filled her nose, and a few small fires licked hungrily at patches of meadow grass.

She cast about for another enemy, and saw two riders break away and beat a track towards Asami and Mako. She cursed and reeled about to intercept them and-

-And a searing pain tore through her sword-arm shoulder, and her fingers spasmed and her sword slipped from them and fell to the ground. Her breath left her lungs in a shout, and when her lungs were empty she could not seem to fill them again through the suffocating weight of pain. She glanced to her right and in her peripheral saw the fletching of an arrow bobbing just behind her shoulder.

And, _gods_ , it hurt. The pain was explosive, and radiated from her shoulder down her arm and pooled like fire in her gut. Her eyes fluttered closed, and then flew open. Her breath would not return in full, and she sucked in shallow bursts of air through gritted teeth. Sweat beaded her brow, and every subtle movement, every bump of the saddle sent fresh knives of agony shooting down her limp and useless arm.

This is not the way it happened in the songs. In the songs the hero could take an arrow as if it were next to nothing. Hells, he would be peppered with them, wearing a veritable plumage of shafts and fletching, and would _still_ ride into battle with a ferocious cry and rain death upon his enemies.

The songs never mention the pain - the heart-stopping, gut-wrenching, obliterating agony of it. Black began to creep around the edges of her vision and the sounds of battle seemed far away, as if she were listening from underwater. She saw her destination ahead of her, blurring in and out of focus - Mako flinging fire, Asami struggling to keep her seat and level her crossbow as her horse bucked and pitched, two enemy horsemen advancing on them. She thought she heard Bolin shout behind her, but the blood thundering in her ears made it hard to be sure.

In the songs the hero never fell from his saddle either, and as she slipped sideways she thought wryly that life was not a song, and she was not a hero.

And then the ground came up to meet her and she knew no more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's a little bit broken.  
> And Korra talks about butt sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mad props to Bf23 for winning the swear contest with _cock juggling thunder cunt!_

Asami hadn’t known that horses could scream. 

They can and they do, when the sky rains arrows and fire licks about their hooves. And the sounds of dying men were pain made manifest, sounds so raw and brutal and wet that she could taste them like copper on the back of her tongue.

None of her training had prepared her for this. It felt almost silly, now - sparring in the courtyard of the manor with her father’s guards, how Jung would stutter an apology every time he hit her hard enough to wind her, and she would clutch her sides and walk off the pain and tell him with a determined jut of her jaw to hit her harder next time. And the way Rin her handmaiden would fuss over her bruises, tutting under her breath about behavior unbecoming of a proper lady. 

Her father hadn’t understood her passion for martial combat, but he indulged it nonetheless. She had trained in grapple and fist, in crossbow and bow, on foot and on horseback. She had trained until she was sore and sweating and melting into her boots like so much candle wax, and then she had trained some more, until the day when it was Jung who was rolling on the ground groaning, and Asami was standing over him offering a triumphant grin and a hand up.

She was grateful for her training, but training had been like battle in the way that a raindrop was like a thunderstorm. And now the sky had opened up and rained red death upon the sun-kissed afternoon. 

It all happened so fast, and for a moment (or an hour or a lifetime) all she knew was fear. Later she would not be able to remember the details of the fight, would not even be able to recall with any clarity the cold terror that gripped her down to her marrow, but she would forever remember the screaming of the horses. 

Asami didn’t see Korra fall. Her horse was wheeling about and she was unhooking saddlebags and readying to dismount and give the beast up for lost. She heard Mako’s shout, though, just as she was preparing to jump.

“ _Korra!_ ”

She leapt free of the horse and led with her shoulder into a roll. Springing up into a crouch she snatched her crossbow off the ground, casting about to get her bearings. 

Mako flung fire at two approaching horsemen, and hit one about the shoulders. The man’s tunic caught fire, and panic overtook him as he tried to unsuccessfully swat away the flame. The battlemage spared a glance in her direction, and she caught his amber eyes for the briefest moment, determined and full of fire. “Get Korra,” he said, “I can handle these two.” And then he spurred his horse forward to meet the enemy as she took off from her crouch in the direction of Korra’s crumpled form. 

A hundred bloody deaths played through her mind as she approached, and when she arrived she was relieved to see that Korra’s only obvious injury was an arrow to the shoulder, too high and outside to have hit anything vital. The force of her relief surprised her, but she didn’t have time to think on it. She crouched next to the fallen woman and Naga stamped a nervous circle around the two, the poor devoted beast. 

Korra was caked in blood and dirt and a thin sheen of sweat. She curled in on herself and groaned and seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness. Asami unsheathed the knife at her belt and began cutting away the leather armor and tunic around the wound. She peeled away layers swiftly but carefully, until Korra’s arm and shoulder and part of her chest lay bare to the cruel light of the high sun - bronze skin and red blood and hard lines of muscles twitching spasmodically.

The arrow had taken her from behind, and had not pierced all the way through. It would have to be pushed the rest of the way out, and that was going to be a bloody mess and more painful than Asami cared to think on. She took a deep breath and snapped the fletching off the shaft. Korra started at the sound and turned her head. Fever-bright eyes found Asami’s and it took a few moments for clarity to surface in a sea of blue confusion. 

“A-Asami?” She groaned and screwed her eyes shut. “Gods, it hurts.”

Asami shushed her and moved to brush the sweat-soaked bangs out of her eyes. It was a tender touch, hesitant, incongruous with the violence of battle all around them. 

“You took an arrow, but you’re going to be okay. Sit up for me?” 

She chanced a glance around. Mako was engaging the last of the nearby horsemen, and in the distance she could see Bolin riding down the remaining archer as she attempted to flee. Asami let out a sigh of relief. It looked as though they would come out of this after all. 

She offered a tattered strip of Korra’s leather armor, and Korra took it with a grimace. “Bite this and ready yourself. This is going to hurt.” 

Korra’s eyes grew wide, but then her eyebrows pulled down, hard and determined, and she set her jaw and nodded grimly. She bit down on the leather and balled her good hand into a fist. 

Asami took a deep breath, clenching the shaft of the arrow and bracing her other hand on Korra’s shoulder. “On three,” she said. “One...” And then she drove forward with all her might. She could feel the arrowhead push through the last of the flesh, could feel the muscle and sinew popping and tearing as the vibrations telegraphed down the length of the shaft.

Korra let out a howl and made to wrench away but Asami grabbed the protruding arrow before she could and slid the shaft the rest of the way out. The young woman flung herself onto her good side and curled up. “You said _three!_ ” she cried, wounded and petulant. 

“I lied,” said Asami. “Didn’t want you tensing up.” She was surprised at her own calm, at how the terror of battle had distilled down to a hyper-focused, pinprick awareness of the task at hand. 

She pushed Korra down flat on her back and cast about for something to stem the bleeding. The scraps of Korra’s tunic were already soaked through, so she tore the sleeves off of her own and pressed them to the wound, both front and back. Korra’s eyes were wet with pain, but blue and bright and present. She was sweating still, and breathing out a string of obscenities through clenched teeth. 

The sound of hoofbeats brought Asami’s attention back to her surroundings. Mako reined up and vaulted off his horse. 

“How bad?” he asked, worry writ plain in his amber eyes. 

“Bad,” growled Korra.

“Not very,” said Asami at the same time. “We need to stop this bleeding, though.”

“I can handle that, but you’re going to want to hold her down.”

Korra’s eyes went wide, and she cast a worried glance between the two. “Oh no,” she said. “ _No_. No no no.” 

“Lie still,” said Asami, mustering as much command as she could and straddling Korra for good measure. Korra ignored the plea and began to wriggle harder, wincing and swearing every time she moved, so Asami placed one hand on her good shoulder and one high on her chest and leaned her weight into them.

“This is going to hurt,” said Mako apologetically, and he brought two fingers to Korra’s wound. 

The smell of burnt flesh hit Asami like a solid thing and nearly knocked her reeling. Her mind flashed back to her childhood, to the night the chef had burned the roast, and she felt sick at the similarities. It would be a long time before Asami could stomach the smell of roast meat again. 

Korra’s scream was a primal, broken thing, and choked short when she slipped back into unconsciousness. Asami sent up a prayer to whatever gods might be listening for that small mercy. Then the two of them flipped her over and repeated the process on the entry wound. 

Mako declared that he would gather their scattered belongings and asked Asami to watch over Korra in the meantime. She gave him a curt nod in acknowledgement. 

As she waited her mind began to wander. 

She looked down at her hands, stained red and brown with drying blood, all of it Korra’s. It was then that she realized with a detached sort of wonder that she had very likely killed a man today. At that distance she hadn’t seen her bolt connect, but she had fired and the archer had fallen, and when he hit the ground he lay still. There had also been the swordswoman, close enough to see the bolt pierce her thigh. Not a fatal blow, though it would have been had Asami’s horse not pitched at the last moment. 

She might have killed someone for the very first time, but she wasn’t certain. Bolin would know. Bolin had checked the bodies and gone about the gruesome task of mercy-killing with grim-faced resignation. He knelt now next to Boulder and removed his gauntlets. As he wiped the blood from his hands and hammer Asami thought that she had never seen him look so broken and that she never again wanted to. He was favoring his shield arm, holding it close against his body and grimacing every time he moved it. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, nodding toward his arm but meaning more than that.

“Jarred it, is all. Don’t think anything’s broken but it hurts to move.” He offered her a small, sad smile that was probably meant to be reassuring but fell flat. Pabu sat upon his shoulder and rubbed his head against Bolin’s cheek, chittering quietly. 

She did not have the heart to ask if her archer had been one of his kills. 

It wouldn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered in the end because the terror was gone, as was the relief that had followed it, and all that remained was that cold, familiar void where her feelings ought to be. In the wake of that vast nothingness, the stain of one life on her soul seemed about as important as the weather in Ba Sing Se. 

She thought on this as Korra began to come around, thought that this must be what it was like to be dead. She wondered for an irrational moment if perhaps she _was_ dead, and that was why she couldn’t remember how it felt to be living. 

Mako returned with Korra’s staff and sword and the saddlebags Asami had thrown from her horse. 

“We need to be gone, and fast,” he said. 

She nodded, rose, and hoisted a leg up over Naga’s saddle. There would be time to ruminate later, she supposed. For now they had to get back to Republic City, and far away from this massacre. She looked at the blood on her hands and felt a pang of irritation at the inherent pointlessness of everything. And then even that small irritation was gone. 

Mako and Bolin hoisted a now conscious and grumpy Korra up to sit behind her. Korra slumped heavily against her and rested her chin on her shoulder. She could feel the young woman’s labored breathing against her back and in her ear. She smelled of sweat and burnt meat.

“I’m sorry,” Korra mumbled, voice thick with pain.

“For what?”

Korra’s good arm was wrapped around her waist, and that hand reached out and grasped one of Asami’s own, thumb tracing a track across knuckles caked in blood. Her grip was surprisingly firm, and the pad of her thumb dislodged rust-colored flakes that floated away in the wind like ash.

The gesture surprised her, the touch somehow intimate and innocuous at the same time, and Asami felt her stomach jump and a gentle tug behind her ribcage. 

In the last three weeks Korra had been the only person that had consistently made her feel _anything_ , though those emotions were not always pleasant. She wondered how this scurrilous cur of a sellsword - a woman equal parts infuriating and endearing - could possibly have such a profound effect on her. A comfortable warmth settled in her chest and, though she knew it wouldn’t last, she decided she might as well enjoy it before that guttered out as well. 

“For bleeding on you,” said Korra in a voice not nearly as strong as her grip. And then, almost as an afterthought, “You’re gonna need another bath.”

It was such an absurd and unexpected statement that Asami couldn’t contain her laugh, and it burst from her in an abrupt little snort that crinkled her nose. “One you’ll let me take in peace, I hope,” she ribbed, grinning despite everything. 

“No promises,” said Korra, and though Asami couldn’t see the young woman she was sure that she was smiling.

\-----

Korra couldn’t recall much of the ride back to the city, but that had everything to do with the white-hot edge of agony and nothing to do with the sweet release of oblivion. Each time she started to slip into unconsciousness Asami would squeeze her fingers or pinch the tender skin on the back of her hand to bring her back around.

She knew they rode hard for a time in order to put some distance between themselves and the incriminating field of bodies. And even though Naga had the smoothest gait of any horse she’d ever ridden, every stride sent fresh knives of pain slicing through her. 

She remembered, bizarrely, thinking that terror-sweat never smelled good - that sour, adrenal stink of fear - but that Asami’s really didn’t smell too bad at all. Korra rode most of the way with her chin resting on the artificer’s shoulder, and more than once was surprised by the urge to nuzzle into the crook of her throat. 

She never did. Even in that strange twilight-haze of agony she knew that nothing good would come of it, that down that road lay a pain to make this one seem a pricked finger. Her relationship with Mako had been enough to prove that to her, and that wound was six months healing and still raw to the touch. She would not make the same mistake again. 

She didn’t think she was destined for romance, in all honesty. Ill luck flocked to her like carrion to a carcass, and deep down inside she was a broken thing, and was loathe to let another person cut themselves asunder on her sharp edges. 

Asami was only a friend, and a new and tenuous one at that. She would not risk more pain in pursuit of affection, and she knew this intuitively even in her state of near-delirium. She had companionship in Bolin and Mako, and there were always pleasure houses where she could slake her baser thirsts, and she would content herself with that.

The last thing she remembered of the ride was that she felt for the first time a great affection for Republic City, one that had nothing to do with Aang’s phantom sentiments. 

Korra had always hated cities, hated their smell and noise and the suffocating press of people bearing in on her from all sides. But when the outer wall of Republic City came into sight, and she saw the crowd of travelers and field-hands and merchants was thick even outside the walls, she found herself thankful for the city in a way she never thought possible. 

They lost themselves in that crowd, four travelers among hundreds, and so passed undetected back to the Harbor District and the _Tree of Time_. 

When Shia saw them approach she opened the door and hailed Lin, who strode outside to meet them. 

“Lin, she’s hurt. We need a physic,” Asami said as Bolin and Mako helped Korra to the ground. The movement jostled her shoulder and sharp knives of pain flashed anew from the joint. 

“I’ll do you one better, kid,” said Lin, then she turned toward the door and hailed, “Garryn!”

Shortly the sound of heavy footfalls could be heard and Garryn’s looming form filled the narrow doorway. He grunted and his grey eyes flicked around the group before settling on Lin.

“Fetch Kya,” she said. “Be quick about it.” The order was met with another grunt and the doorman pushed past them and into the street. Shia gathered the reins of their horses and led them away, but not before Pabu scuttled out of his saddlebag and hid himself in Bolin’s arms.

“Who’s Kya?” asked Bolin as the five of them entered the tavern. He was still favoring his left arm, cradling it gingerly against his side. He and Lin led them up the stairs and to their room, Korra following behind and leaning heavily against Asami. 

“A healer, staying at the _Bearded Beaver_ ,” said Lin.

“Oh, Shady Shin’s whorehouse! How is that scoundrel? And wait! There’s a healer in town?”

“Aye. We have a healer, and a few other mages besides, scattered about some of Republic City’s finer establishments. You know what they say, ‘don’t keep all of your eggs in one whorehouse.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what they say,” offered Bolin helpfully.

“I’m pretty sure you can shut the fuck up.”

Bolin did, promptly. 

Asami helped Korra onto the bed, and Lin began to unfasten Bolin’s armor for him, laying all the pieces in a pile by the door. 

Korra drifted in and out as they waited. She couldn’t mark the pass of time, but it must have been a while. Lin came and went from the room more than once and Bolin played with Pabu on the other side of the bed. At one point Korra realized that she hadn’t seen Mako since they returned, and she turned to Asami who was leaning against the wall and watching her in that calculating way of hers. 

“Where’s Mako?” she asked, voice scratchy from disuse. 

“Drinking,” said Asami in a way that conveyed her displeasure with that truth.

Korra grunted and frowned, but before she could continue Lin breached the doorway, and a woman who was presumably the healer followed her in. 

“Kya,” she introduced herself, and her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She moved across the room with a light and airy grace. “You must be Korra and Bolin. I hear we have some injuries that need tending.”

“Just a scratch,” said Korra, and the healer arched one delicate eyebrow to show what she thought of Korra’s bravado. 

“Let’s get to work then.” She turned toward Asami and Lin and cocked her chin toward the door. “I’ll thank you to give us some space.” Asami nodded and left, but Lin looked like she wanted to argue. Kya held up a finger to silence her, and if Korra hadn’t been in so much pain, she would have been surprised that that had worked. “You too, Lin. Go tend your bar.” And then the healer shooed her with a wave of her hand and a cluck of her tongue, and Lin retreated into the hallway, cowed and grumbling. 

Kya moved to sit on the bed next to Korra, bringing with her a bucket of water. 

“You’ve been healed before, I take it?” Korra grunted an affirmative as she settled further into the lumpy, unyielding mattress. “Then you know you’ll feel better in a few minutes, but first it’s going to hurt like hell.” 

The healer began to murmur under her breath, and the ancient words of power settled like a fine mist on Korra’s skin, cool and refreshing. She reached toward the bucket and called forth the water, shaping it into a sphere which began to glow and pulse. 

Korra snorted and rolled her eyes. “Already hurts like hell,” she said, “I doubt you’ll make it any wors- Ah! _F-fuck!_ ”

The pain was a white-hot poker straight to the shoulder, and Korra thrashed away from the healer, stomach lurching as a wave of nausea crashed into her. Kya held her firm with the hand that wasn’t working the water, pressing down high on her chest with all her weight and pinning her hips with a well-placed knee. The woman was surprisingly strong, and Korra fought in vain to free herself. Fragmented shouts tore from her throat, and her breaths were frayed at the edges, unravelling like an old tunic. 

Soon - though not soon enough - the blinding heat of agony began to ebb and was replaced by a pulsing ache. Korra ceased her struggling. The nausea remained, though, and she swallowed thickly and glowered at the healer still pressing down upon her.

She was getting awfully tired of being held down and hurt.

“Unhand me, you cock juggling thunder cunt,” she groused, and she wrenched away and curled in on herself with a pout. 

Kya pursed her lips thinly and raised an eyebrow, but her blue eyes danced with amusement. “I have been called a great many things in my life, but that is certainly a new one,” she said, and if she was trying to hide the smile in her voice she was doing a terrible job.

“Don’t take it to heart,” laughed Bolin as he clapped the healer on the back with his good arm. “She punched her last healer in the face. My turn!” And he proffered his injured arm. 

Korra rolled away and towards the door, listening to the pain hitch Bolin’s breath as the electric pulse of magic settled once again in the room. 

Kya repeated the process a few times, alternating between Korra and Bolin, and eventually the healing waters brought soothing and warmth, and all vestiges of pain were sloughed away. Nearly an hour passed before the healer was done with them, and by the end Korra’s eyelids were drooping and her limbs were heavy and she was drifting comfortably between sleep and wakefulness.

She jolted full awake when Kya rose from the edge of the bed and began to collect her things. “Rest for the remainder of the day. You’ll need it,” she said. Korra grunted noncommittally at that and Kya shot her a pointed look. “I mean it. No funny business.” 

“Me? Never,” she deadpanned, and then a flash of movement caught her eye and she looked past Kya. 

Asami stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb and watching Korra with an unreadable expression on her face. She looked haggard, and as she wrapped her arms around herself she seemed so small and haunted that Korra wanted to leap from the bed and draw her into a hug. The sentiment surprised her, and she pushed the thought down just as she had the nausea. 

“Are you okay?” asked the artificer. 

“I’ve had worse,” grunted Korra, and she struggled to sit up but Kya made a warning sound in the back of her throat and Korra got the distinct feeling that the healer would pin her down again if she tried to move. She flopped back onto the bed in defeat. “Are _you_ okay?” 

“Fine. I’m fine.” She didn’t sound fine; she sounded empty. 

“Asami-”

“I’m fine, Korra.” And her face was a mask again. “I just wanted to see to your healing.” She turned to leave, but hesitated and looked back over her shoulder. Green eyes regarded her, and Korra felt trapped by the intensity of that gaze and confused by the unspoken sentiments held therein. “I’m glad you’re okay.” And then she was gone and Korra was left wondering at the weight that had settled in her chest. 

She didn’t have long to wonder, though, as Kya’s voice rose in a friendly warning. “Now I want you both to take it easy on those injuries for a day or two. I work magic, not miracles.” 

“Swear by the light of Raava,” promised Bolin. “I’ll keep this one in check, too.” And he reached over and mussed Korra’s travel-tangled hair. Korra swatted him away, only a little irritated. 

As the healer wandered toward the door, Korra heard two things: A small chuckle and murmured words that sounded suspiciously like ‘thunder cunt.’

\-----

“There is access via the sewers.”

“And where would that deposit us?” asked Raiko.

From his vantage near the back of the small crowd Bolin saw Asami lean forward and point to the parchment map. “Here,” she said. “The sluiceway below the bath and outhouses in the inner courtyard. The portal is small, big enough for one person to crawl through at a time. Not suited for a full-scale assault, but we could send a small invasion team.”

There were a few dozen people gathered in the storehouse, pressed cheek by jowl around the crude wooden table. Dirty hay littered the hard-packed floor and the place smelled of sweat and manure and anticipation. Lin had led them to an unassuming barn in a dilapidated neighborhood near the outskirts of the city, and here they met the veritable hodgepodge of people upon whose shoulders the revolution rested. 

There was Raiko, the leader of this endeavor, who Lin said couldn’t fight for shit but was a compelling orator and a born commander and had a tempered sense of justice. He carried himself with the confidence and ease of one born to money and raised to lead. 

There was Iroh, tall and lithe and conspicuously clean in his fine silk tunic. Korra had taken an immediate disliking to the man and referred to him as ‘General Eunuch’ (and now Bolin couldn’t listen to his adolescent voice without sniggering). He was a high-ranking official in the Fire Kingdom Navy who recently defected to join the growing ranks of the revolution. Bolin heard whispers that he had loved a young mage in the Republic and that she had been killed in the Purge, and that Iroh had sworn his life to vengeance in the memory of his beloved. He didn’t know if that was true, but the thought appealed to his romantic sensibilities and he chose to believe it anyway. 

There was Tahno, a mage Bolin remembered from back before the Purge. He had been in a rival guild, and there was bad blood between him and Mako, though Bolin never really knew what had started it all. Even now Tahno’s snide smirk oozed venom, and he cast it toward the brothers at every available opportunity. 

There were others too, and some Bolin knew and some he didn’t: Shady Shin with his greasy smile, and a roguish little fellow called Two-Toed Ping, and Kya the healer, and a few whose faces Bolin recognized as regulars at the _Tree of Time_. 

He wondered where the bulk of their army would come from, and realized with some trepidation that it would most likely be city folk who had never before held a sword. He knew from Lin that Amon had disbanded all organized militia. He had given them the option to either swear him their swords or leave. Some left peacefully (like the Templar of Raava, who returned to their mother city, Zaofu), and some swore allegiance (mostly mercenaries who lived for coin and not honor), and some fought and were destroyed (like the Blades who served Vaatu, brother-god to Raava). 

They had been in this stinking barn for most of the afternoon, and Bolin was having a hard time following the vein of conversation. All this talk of strategy bored him, and he bounced anxiously on his toes near the rear of the crowd. Pabu, jostled by the movement, made an irritated little chirp from his position on his shoulder. Beside him Korra tapped the butt of her staff against the dirt. On his other side Mako cast a wary gaze about the gathered riffraff in that hawkish way of his, taking occasional swigs from his wineskin. 

Seeing that brought a frown to Bolin’s face. He worried for his brother more and more each day. Mako had always been reserved and brooding. He carried a great darkness in his heart, and had for as long as Bolin could remember. There were times, too, when he drowned that darkness in drink, though Bolin had never seen him quite this bad - not even after that row with Korra that followed their breakup when he drank for a week straight. 

He was maintaining now, drinking steadily throughout the day but staying more or less alert, but at nights and on days when they had nothing else to do he was always in his cups. Four weeks it had been going strong, and Bolin was sick with anxiety. Twice he had tried to broach the topic with his brother, and twice he had been met with bristling denial, and both times they had argued and Mako had drunk himself to sleep. 

After a while Asami’s voice broke him from his musings.

“I would be happy to lead the invasion team, should you wish it.” she said. Raiko and Iroh exchanged looks and a few others murmured among themselves. 

“With her knowledge of the grounds I would say that a prudent move,” said Iroh, his high voice carrying surprisingly well over the gathered crowd. 

Raiko pondered this a moment, stroking his mustache absently with a thumb. After some deliberation he turned to Asami and offered her a terse nod. 

“Aye then, the command is yours.”

“Korra, Bolin, and I will accompany her,” offered Mako. A few of the gathered turned to look at him, including Kya who gave Bolin a warm smile. He noticed with amusement how close she stood to Lin, how her fingers brushed the other woman’s too frequently to be happenstance. 

“Actually,” said Bolin, “I would be better suited to the main assault. You know - armored, mounted. I _am_ a knight.”

“You’re a _squire_ ,” Korra pointed out.

“A minor technicality.” He shrugged. “Put me on the field.”

“We haven’t time to discuss this now. Asami will pick her party later and bring it to Lin for approval. All others will be on the field for the assault on the walls.” Raiko’s tone was clipped, commanding. 

Conversation continued, and Bolin looked to Mako to gauge the other’s mood.

Mako was lost in thought, worrying his lip in quiet contemplation. “If you’re going to be on the field, I’m going with you,” he said after a long while.

“You needn’t,” said Bolin. “I’ll be fine. Besides, Asami could use a battlemage on the inside.”

“Asami will have to do without.” 

Bolin wanted to argue, to tell Mako that he wasn’t a boy any longer, but Korra spoke first.

“Aw Bolin, let him.” She grinned and elbowed him in the side. “Mako doesn’t know what to do with himself when he’s not protecting you. All he does is drink.”

She hit a nerve and for a second Mako looked fit to light her on fire. The comment had caught him mid-swig, though, and he lowered the skin a little guiltily and coughed into his hand. He had trouble making eye contact after that, and stared resolutely ahead. 

A few minutes of uncomfortable silence passed between the brothers before Mako broke it. “I’m not leaving you,” he said with conviction. And the next time when Mako spoke he did turn to meet Bolin’s gaze. His amber eyes were sad and pleading. “You’re my brother.” 

Bolin took that to mean, _I love you_.

“Okay,” he said, by which he meant, _I love you too_. And in that moment he felt a little better. 

Raiko’s voice rose again and Bolin stopped to listen, petting Pabu distractedly. 

“Amon will not meet us in open battle. We have the numbers advantage and his position is defensible. He is no fool. Our only recourse is to storm the palace.”

“Many would die,” said a small, nervous man who Bolin had never seen before. “Wouldn’t a siege be the safer option?”

Lin scoffed and turned a scowl on the man, who visibly recoiled from her. “What sort of barkeep are you, that you have no ears? Have you not heard the talk in this city? There are those who are sympathetic to Amon still. A siege could take months and would leave us vulnerable to counterattack.”

“Aye,” agreed Iroh. “A siege is too risky. It would give them time to organize and take us in the rear.”

“Oh, General,” said Korra quietly enough that only Bolin could hear. “I’d take you in the rear _any_ day.”

The guffaw that exploded from Bolin was loud enough to halt all conversation, and every head turned toward the source of the outburst. 

“Sorry,” Bolin said sheepishly, hiding his grin behind a hand. “Carry on.”

But then Korra leaned in to whisper in his ear and she was wearing that innocent expression (the one that meant she was anything but), and Bolin knew there would be trouble. 

“What? You wouldn’t?” she drawled, all feigned offense. “But he's so _pretty_.” 

Just like that Korra’s absurdity shattered the last remnants of Bolin’s composure, and he laughed so hard that his sides hurt, so hard that he couldn’t breathe and his laughter turned to great, heaving wheezes. He laughed because he didn’t want to feel the worry that had been chewing at his mind the past few weeks, and he laughed because he loved to laugh and because Korra was laughing too and she was nothing if not infectious. 

And right when he thought he might recover and cobble together some sort of apology, he looked to Mako and found his brother red to the ears and hiding behind his hands in utter mortification, and he lost it all over again.

“A-apologies,” he choked out, winded and grinning toothily and swiping the tears away from his eyes. The gathered crowd grumbled its annoyance, and most of the faces were frowning or scowling. “Please continue. Something about rears?”

That had Korra howling again, and Bolin felt a chuckle bubbling up his throat too, but Mako hissed, “Gods, _Bolin!_ ” and slapped him on the back of the head hard enough to hurt. 

“ _Enough!_ ” bellowed Raiko in a voice so thunderous that Bolin swore it shook the rafters.

Korra snapped her mouth shut and Mako shot to attention and even Pabu paused where he had been chewing a hole in the leg of Bolin’s trousers and blinked his glowing eyes toward their red-faced and fuming leader. 

The room fell silent but for Pabu’s metallic chittering, and all eyes volleyed between Bolin and Raiko. 

“Are you quite finished?” asked Raiko though clenched teeth, mustache twitching in agitation. 

“I think so,” squeaked Bolin in a voice as high and clear as Iroh’s.

“Good. Any further interruption and I will have you removed from the premises.” 

Discussion resumed, and they continued on the topic of storming the stronghold. Asami said something about structural integrity and blasting powder that Bolin didn’t quite understand. Iroh - with his boyish voice and pretty, pretty face - responded in kind, and he tried to pay attention but Pabu was perched on his shoulder and digging through his hair. 

The meeting continued for another two hours, and during that time Bolin was able to glean a few pieces of useful information. He learned that Lin was given command of the vanguard (and this is where he hoped to be), and that Iroh had command of the rearguard, and that the attack was set for the night of the harvest moon, just before dawn some three weeks hence. 

When they finally adjourned, Bolin was feeling better than he had in a days. He had taken time to pray in the final hours of discussion and in his faith he found the comfort he had been seeking - a kind of quiet certainty that he wished he could share with his companions, but he thought it would be ill-received. For himself, though, he knew that they would be okay, knew it in the way he knew the sun would rise on the morrow.

He stretched as he stepped into the late evening sun, cracking his shoulders and letting out a contented _ahh_. Pabu squirmed restlessly in his hiding place within his shirt.

Lin stepped up beside him and fixed him with a condescending look. “You’re a menace,” she said. 

“I know,” he responded with a shrug, and then he waggled his eyebrows at her and shot her a conspiratorial grin. “So... you and Kya?”

Lin’s face flashed surprise for the space of an instant before it twisted into a terrible scowl, and her response was more growl than speech. “Think carefully, lest your next words be your last.”

He did think carefully, drumming his fingers against his chin. And then he decided that Raava hadn’t brought him this far just to let him die at the hands of some grumpy old woman. This was a gamble he would happily take. 

“My apologies, Lin. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just, well, I didn’t know your sword swung that way.” And he was off at a sprint even before he finished his sentence, pushing through the crowded streets back towards the _Tree of Time_. 

Behind him Korra’s raucous laughter rang out in the cool evening air, followed shortly by Lin’s indignant shout. She promised him a thousand slow and painful deaths, and he thought to himself that it had been entirely worth it to laugh like this again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re born.  
> We suffer.  
> We die.
> 
> And Bolin has ill luck with pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So this chapter was originally supposed to have a few more scenes in it but I decided to split it into two chapters for a few reasons: 
> 
> 1\. I’m a wordy motherfucker, and this was turning into a 10,000 word monstrosity.  
> 2\. It will give you something to read while I obsessively rewrite and edit the next few scenes like, 500 more times. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Dead.”

The point of Korra’s wooden training sword rested against Asami’s neck, pressing just hard enough to dimple the fine porcelain skin. Breathing heavily and clearly frustrated, Asami growled and swatted the sword away.

“Again,” she said, scooping up her own weapon from where it had clattered on the floor. 

“Asami, we’ve been at this for hours...” Korra trailed off, smiling kindly. She could see the frustration mounting in the other woman and although _frustrated Asami_ was preferable to _vacant Asami_ , she worried at the emotional toll it was taking. 

For an instant it looked like Asami was going to argue, determination flashing like lightning in those green eyes, but then she sighed and carded a hand through sweat-soaked hair. Dropping her shoulders in resignation, she made her way to the edge of the ale cellar and took a seat on a keg of mead. She rested her chin on a hand and stared blankly toward the far end of the room where the brothers were sparring. 

Korra followed and took a seat on a neighboring keg, idly knocking her heels against the wood. Across the way Mako was flinging fey-fire - which burned green and without heat - and Bolin was dodging and circling, trying to get close enough to land a blow. 

“The harvest moon is in a fortnight,” said Asami quietly, her lower lip pushing out in the merest shadow of a pout. “There’s no way I’m going to be ready.”

It was true, Korra thought. For the past week the two had been sparring, and Korra had seen enough to suss out the other’s strengths and weaknesses. Asami was a formidable opponent in unarmed combat, and though Korra was the stronger, Asami’s speed and ingenuity won out more than half the time. She was also an excellent shot with a crossbow, a skill Korra could not herself claim. 

Worry nagged at Korra’s mind, though, because those skills were ill-suited to the sort of combat they were likely to face when sneaking into the palace. A crossbow may be helpful in the courtyard if they were to encounter enemies at any distance, but once inside it would be of questionable use. And no matter her level of mastery, Asami’s unarmed skill would be next to useless against an armed opponent, even one of middling talent. 

A few days ago Korra had voiced this concern and at first Asami had adamantly argued against the observation. She had her glove, after all, and had been insistent upon its power and utility. 

They had quarreled, briefly, and then Korra had challenged her to a duel, and only twice in nine times was Asami able to get close enough to tag Korra’s body when Korra was wielding a sword. When Korra fought with her quarterstaff Asami wasn’t able to get inside her guard even once, and thus the argument was settled. 

The past three days they had set to sword-work, and upon beginning Asami abashedly admitted that she had only studied the blade a few months prior to the Purge, and that three years of disuse had left her rusty enough to be useless. 

It was not entirely true. Asami was naturally athletic, quick and sure-footed. She was far from useless, but it would not be enough. 

“I’m pretty terrible, aren’t I?” Asami asked in a way that suggested she already knew the answer. 

Offering the other woman an amicable grin, Korra playfully nudged her with a shoulder. “Hey now, we’ll figure something out. No need to pout.”

“I’m not pouting,” she insisted, now definitely pouting. Still, there was a hint of a smile in her voice, and Korra took that as a good sign. 

“You’re better than Mako,” Korra offered helpfully. 

Asami groaned and buried her face in her hands. “ _Pabu_ is a better swordsman than Mako.”

“Hey!” Mako’s shout was indignant, and he turned and shot a glare at the two, but his gaze held no heat and there was amusement in his eyes. “I’m right here, you know.”

Capitalizing on his brother’s distraction, Bolin threw himself at Mako and tapped him on the temple with the stick he was using in lieu of his hammer. 

“Woo! Dead! I am victorious!” The young squire strutted a circle around his brother, pompous as a peacock. 

“What? No! That doesn’t count,” huffed Mako, crossing his arms. “That was a cheap shot.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Bolin leaned toward him with a hand cupped to his ear. “The dead don’t speak.”

“Oh, okay. You want to play dirty, huh?” Cocking an eyebrow, the mage grinned wolfishly.

“Silence, dead man!”

With one final backward glance at the women and a casual shrug, Mako flicked his wrist in the direction of his brother. At once orange tongues of flame licked the hem of Bolin’s trousers, and he squawked and frantically beat at them with open palms, hopping comically about the cellar on one foot. Mako laughed, true and hearty, and Korra’s heart swelled at the sound. It was so infrequent to hear genuine mirth from him, especially of late, and to see him laughing (and relatively sober) brought to mind happier times. 

“That was _real_ fire!” whined Bolin, pointing an accusatory finger at his brother “And these are my favorite trousers! Now they’re all singed and they smell like burnt hair.”

“It was only a _little_ bit of fire,” laughed Mako, “And I thought the green ones were your favorite.”

“Those are my _other_ favorite.”

“You only own the two.”

Whatever Bolin said next was lost to Korra, because Asami leaned against her with a breathy chuckle, green eyes still fixed on the bickering boys. 

This was nice, this casual comfort that had settled between the two, and Korra leaned back into the touch, pressing their arms together and tamping down the appreciative hum that threatened to escape. 

It felt odd to make a new friend. Korra had so few of them over the years that the concept was still alien and a little frightening, especially because it had all happened so fast. 

The artificer was surprisingly easy to talk to, and in the two weeks since Faverhill, Korra found herself spending more and more of her time in the company of the other woman. She was still largely a mystery, but Korra had been getting better at that - deciphering the enigma that was Asami. 

Inwardly she had taken to naming Asami by her moods, though those moods were so subtle that they were easy to miss and so fleeting she often wondered if they had been there at all. There was _irritated Asami, worried Asami, amused Asami, determined Asami_ , and many more besides. Most of all, though, there was _vacant Asami_ , hidden always behind impenetrable walls of practiced niceties. 

Briefly she thought back to when she met the woman, how that very vacancy had inspired a healthy amount of suspicion and irritation. At the time she had seemed wary and disingenuous. Now she seemed haunted and so, so alone, and it woke in Korra a deep and abiding sorrow. 

There was an undeniable tragic beauty to Asami Sato, and Korra didn’t know much about beauty but she and tragedy were old friends. 

Now, leaning against one another in the cool air of the ale cellar, laughing at the writhing mass of limbs and obscenities that was the two brothers, Korra could no longer deny that affection had blossomed in her heart and it had snaked its roots through a foundation of these quiet, stolen moments. 

“You know,” began Asami quietly, “You’re the only one who hasn’t tried to talk me out of this, fighting in the war I mean. Mako does every day. Bolin too, though not as often and with far more tact. Even Lin offered to have my command reassigned. Of course she explained it away as being unwilling to endanger her most consistent source of income.” She laughed bitterly at that, and cast a brief sideways glance at Korra. “Seems nobody believes me capable of surviving this.”

Korra reached for her hand and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Why would I try to talk you out of it? We both know you wouldn’t listen,” she said, flashing the woman a knowing smirk. 

That earned a little laugh, the kind that made Korra’s heart stutter in her chest. “Am I that transparent?”

“Like glass,” Korra quipped, though she thought to herself if Asami was made of glass, it was opaque, like the vials at the apothecaries where you were never certain what lay within. 

A few more moments of easy silence passed between the two before Asami’s sharp intake of breath startled Korra. “I have an idea,” breathed Asami, and she hopped from the keg and snatched her glove up and pulled it on. 

Standing and lacing her fingers, Korra stretched languidly before turning to regard the other woman. She was pleased to catch the tail end of Asami’s appraising gaze, and grinned at the light dusting of blush on her face. “Okay. So what’s this idea?”

“I’ll show you,” said Asami, regaining all of her composure in the space of an instant. “There’s no way I’ll master swordplay before the harvest moon, but I might be able to solve the problem another way. Korra, draw your sword.” Korra made to reach for her wooden training sword, but Asami stopped her with a hand on her forearm. “Your real sword.” Cocking an eyebrow in question, Korra hesitated. “Draw. Trust me.”

“My trust does not come easy.” Korra said softly. Despite her words, she drew her sword and held it at the ready. Asami stepped forward and took Korra’s hand, adjusting her grip, moving her hand down the worn leather away from the metal guard and toward the obsidian pommel. Her hands were warm, and calloused, and there was a surprising strength in the slender fingers as they adjusted her grip. Korra frowned and furrowed her brows. “This is not the way I hold my sword.”

“This is but a concept demonstration, not a recreation of actual combat,” she said flippantly. Asami flexed her fingers and her glove crackled to life. The quiet thrum of magic filled the air. She reached slowly for Korra’s blade, and Korra shifted nervously as she watched the splintered blue lightning but did not withdraw her weapon. Pausing, Asami met and held Korra’s gaze. “ _Do_ you trust me?”

Korra debated a moment her possible responses, then decided on honesty. “I don’t know yet.” The truth tasted foreign on her tongue, but it settled somewhere deep in her chest, snug and comfortable. 

“Trust is built on faith,” Asami said quietly. “And faith is not knowing if the ground is there, but stepping forward regardless.” Her eyes sparkled and her mouth turned up in the smallest of smiles. “Time to take a step.” 

And before Korra had time to react Asami had touched the palm of her glove to the flat of Korra’s blade. Snakes of electricity jumped along the length of it and Korra jerked a little in surprise, muscles tensing for the anticipated shock. The shock didn’t come, and she regained her posture quickly, watching with wide eyes the blue ribbons that danced across the steel. 

Asami withdrew her glove and continued in a hurried, enthusiastic voice. 

“Steel is conductive. I don’t need to be a master swordswoman. I need a blade that can do what my glove does. Then I have reach, and the option to parry-” Korra snorted and rolled her eyes and Asami punched her in the shoulder with an indignant little huff. “Okay, not gracefully, you _ass_. But well enough to prevent an otherwise disastrous strike. And if my opponent’s hands are too close to the guard, well, I wouldn’t even need to strike the body. I’ll need steel piping, and copper, and a forge, a small anvil. Maybe I don’t need a forge! I bet Mako could produce a hot enough flame...” She was talking very fast now, gesturing with her hands. Excitement sparkled bright in her eyes. 

Korra watched as Asami retreated into her labyrinthian mind. She thought she was probably staring longer than propriety permitted, but couldn’t find the strength to look away. 

Briefly her thoughts flew back to a few nights ago when she had dreamt of Asami, and _gods_ what a dream it had been - all rolling hips and writhing bodies and slick wet heat. She awoke flustered and frustrated and later that evening took Ginger to bed hoping to distract herself.

Whores were easy. Whores were safe. It was simply a business transaction, unsullied by expectation and without danger of emotional entanglement. 

But everything about it felt wrong. Ginger’s eyes were the wrong color green and her hands were soft where they should be calloused. Her body was all gentle, pliant curves and no lithe muscle and her voice was high and clear when Korra only had ears for Asami’s smoke and honey tones. The whole experience had been so unnerving that Korra had ended it early and paid the whore in coin and apologies. 

She spent the rest of that evening on the roof, ruminating on the myriad of reasons why it was a bad idea to fall for this woman, and at the time she could find no shortage of them. Considering her own disastrous history with matters of the heart, it seemed a gamble with stakes too high and odds too low. 

Now, though, watching Asami’s eyes sparkle with innovation - (she wondered what she would name this Asami. _Passionate, brilliant, most beautiful Asami_?) - Korra was hard pressed to bring a single one of those reasons to mind. 

It was then that she knew she was well and truly fucked.

\-----

The tavern proper was lively and bustling, and Mako was hopeful as he looked around the table at his companions. They had trained hard all day, and now he was content to enjoy this meal with a good, strong drink and even better company.

In a week they would storm the palace, and for the first time since they began this endeavor, Mako thought that maybe, just _maybe_ , they would all come out of this alive. 

He felt better knowing that he would be in the vanguard with Bolin, knowing that he could be there to protect his brother in the fray. And he worried very little for Korra. On principle that woman was too stubborn to die. 

Asami, too, he felt more confident about than he had in weeks. Her ‘sword’ was finished, and like all of her creations it was a terrible thing to be on the receiving end of. Little more than a modified steel rod with crossbar - steel handle crosshatched for grip and grooved to fit the platinum workings of her glove - it was a solution both simple and savagely effective. 

Upon its completion Bolin had insisted upon a demonstration and had swung slowly and playfully at Asami with a borrowed sword. She had backpedaled and dodged, and tried valiantly to talk him out of the ludicrous idea as she wove around his lazy swings. Finally, backed into a corner of the cellar and out of both room and patience, she had obliged him.

She brought her sword up to parry, and at the first shivering contact of steel-on-steel snakes of blue lightning shot down Bolin’s blade and up into his body. He hit the ground in a convulsing pile of limbs, and he loosed his bladder involuntarily (effectively sullying his _other_ favorite pair of trousers), and then he lay still.

When he came around ten minutes later, he blinked blearily up at the three forms crouching over him. Pushing his weight up on his elbows, he frowned down at the dark stain on the crotch of his pants then shot Asami a blistering look. “Why did you let me do that?” he whined, petulant and pouting. “That was a _terrible_ idea!”

Now Bolin and Asami were supping and laughing, and Mako found himself joining in the merriment. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits except for Korra, who pushed her food around her plate listlessly. She had been moody and volatile all day.

Apparently she had woken the night before in a panic - another of her nightmares - and had spent the rest of the night on the roof as she was wont to do. Mako had slept through it - the drink did that too him, he mused a little guiltily - but Bolin had filled him in on the details that morning when he awoke to the slicing knives of the sun’s first rays. His brother had also mentioned that her waking dreams seemed to be worse than usual, and Mako wondered again at how perceptive Bolin could be. 

“Hey Korra, when all this war business is over, why don’t you come with me to Temple?” Bolin asked around a mouthful of food.

“I’d rather fall on my sword,” she said, frowning into a mug of ale. 

“Aw, come on! Republic City’s Temple is a beautiful sight to behold, and the gardens this time of year are just teeming with life! Not to mention the service. I don’t know if the same priest officiates, but years ago there was brother Benji, and he could light a fire in even the coldest hearts. Mako and Asami would probably come too, wouldn’t you guys?” 

“Sure I will,” said Asami kindly as she patted the back of Bolin’s hand.

Mako grunted his agreement and took a long swallow of spirits. He could tell this conversation would probably go south, and quick. It was about time for their monthly row on religion, and he silently wished they would just skip it this time. The day had been going so well, after all, and he was not nearly drunk enough to handle a furious and combative Korra. 

Mako’s parents hadn’t been the least bit religious, but like most folk of meager means - whose luck could make or break them on any given day - they were devoutly superstitious. Mother had always placed a bowl of goat’s milk just outside their door on the solstices, an offering to malevolent spirits so that they would leave the occupants of the house unharmed. 

Growing up their days had been punctuated by a thousand irrelevant rules - ill luck to stir a pot counterclockwise, ill luck to breach a doorway with the left foot, ill luck to encounter a spirit of any kind, or to do such things as to attract their notice. Mako had never seen a spirit and wasn’t sure he believed in them either, but to this day he sometimes caught himself stutter-stepping just outside a portal so that he stepped through with his right foot. 

Bolin had found his faith on the streets. It was during the two years after their parents had passed, when they spent more days hungry than not. Bolin had been six, and had taken a liking to the kindly priests who roamed outside the Temple of Raava. The priests seemed not to mind the street rats that milled about their courtyard, and all offered teachings and some even offered food, but theirs was not a wealthy existence and there were too many mouths and not enough bread to feed them all. 

And so it was that Mako would leave Bolin in the relative safety of the Temple grounds to scour the streets for sustenance. More often than not he would return at sunset and find his brother with a heart full of fledgeling faith and a belly empty of anything but hunger pains. Sometimes Bolin would recount the lessons he had learned as they supped on whatever paltry victuals Mako had been able to pilfer, and often he would ask Mako to stay and listen to the sermons on the morrow. 

Mako would have liked to, but faith was poor substitute for a meal, and his pragmatism won out in the end. He was eight, and _someone_ had to feed the two of them, and that someone was him. 

When Mako was ten his ability had manifested, and the guild that had poached him off the streets demanded all of his time and attention. The Triads took good care of him, taught him how to use his _gift_ , and even provided a bed for Bolin until he was accepted into the Templar as a squire. With all there was to learn and do, Mako had very little time to ponder the gods and their tenets. 

Even now Mako tried to share in his brother’s conviction, but could not see the sense in it. Bolin believed that those who served the gods were in turn favored by them. In Mako’s experience the only people who seemed favored in this life were those that served themselves, often at the expense of those around them. 

Still, though, he had no problem going to Temple if it would make his brother happy. 

“Sure, Bo. I’ll go.”

Bolin’s grin split his face, and he turned it on the hunched and grumpy form of the young sell-sword. “See? We’ll make a thing of it.”

“No thanks, Bo. I would rather fuck myself bloody with a morningstar.” 

“Korra, gross,” said Asami, frowning pointedly. 

“Oh, come on! Just once? Please?” He drew out the last word, letting it linger in the air between them.

“I would rather stick a white-hot poker in my cu-”

“Korra, I’m trying to _eat_.” said Asami with a squeamish hitch of her lip, but she smiled shortly thereafter and nudged Korra playfully with an elbow. “Save your vivid imagery for another time.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe?” asked Bolin earnestly. 

“Because I have eyes and ears and half a brain.”

“I think half a brain might be a little generous,” murmured Asami playfully. 

“Quiet, you.” Korra grinned and speared a potato off the other’s plate. “Who needs brains when I have muscles like these?” She flexed for good measure and Asami rolled her eyes. 

Mako coughed into his drink and glanced awkwardly away from the two women. 

Earlier this week Bolin had expressed his certainty that the two had a romantic interest in one another. The observation had thoroughly surprised Mako, but it did explain all the pointed looks and eyebrow-waggling his brother had been doing these past weeks. He had been skeptical about it at first, but the more he watched the more he noticed the stolen glances and casual touches, and gods-be-damned how does Bolin always know these things?

Thinking on his ill luck with women, Mako took another healthy swig and considered for the fourth time that day that he may just stick to men. 

“Don’t they worship Raava in the South?” Bolin prodded.

“Aye, Bolin, we worship Raava in the South. And my brethren in the North worship Vaatu, and on Kyoshi Island they worship a painted lady with overlarge feet, and the swamp-men worship a goddamn _tree_. And what good has that ever done anyone? If there be gods they don’t give half a frozen fuck about the likes of us, any fool can see that. We’re born, we suffer, we die. End of story. Now will you please drop it and let me sup in peace?” Korra’s voice now had a hard edge of anger in it, and her eyes flashed dangerously. 

“Everything happens for a reason,” said Bolin gently, seriously. “Even bad things, even if we can’t see the reason at the time. A person is tempered by trials just as a sword is in the heat of the forge. It makes us strong, shapes us into who we were meant to be.”

“Bolin. Drop it.”

And this was the point in the conversation where Bolin usually would. His brother was always willing to take the high road in favor of keeping the peace, so it shocked Mako when Bolin continued to press the issue. 

“I just wish you believed in _something_. Anything, even a goddamn tree.” His brother’s eyes were sad, and Mako placed a hand on one broad shoulder because he didn’t know what else to do. “I think it would help with your, well, you know, your-”

“My _what_ , Bolin?” 

“Your anger,” he said hurriedly. “You’re a very angry person.”

“I am not an angry person!” she nearly shouted. Mako averted his eyes and took a belt of his spirits to drown whatever comment almost breached his lips. Korra was near her boiling point, and nothing good would come of arguing with her now. “Shut the fuck up, Mako,” she said, calmer this time but only just. 

“Hey, I didn’t say anything.” He frowned and held his palms up defensively.

“Yeah, but you were thinking awfully loud over there,” she growled.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he took another drink. The warmth that bloomed in his chest was comforting, calming. He was about to change the subject, to steer them away from this topic, but Bolin’s voice cut him off before he had the chance to begin. 

“If you just had some faith, just a little, just a teensy- _eentsy_ bit-”

“I _had_ faith!” Korra bellowed, and she shot up from her chair so fast that it scraped across the rough timber floor. All neighboring conversation died and the roar of the tavern became a low, interested murmur, prodding at the edges of their little group. Bolin looked thunderstruck by her outburst, and even Asami - cool, collected Asami - flinched from Korra’s anger. 

Korra cast her gaze across the gawking tavern-folk, and a flush rose in her cheeks - embarrassment or anger or both, Mako wasn’t sure. Leaning forward on her palms so that she was nearly nose-to-nose with Bolin, she continued in a hushed voice full of quiet fury. 

“I had faith,” she repeated, her eyes flashing fire and pain. Mako felt an old, familiar pang in his chest. Even in the months they were together she never trusted him with her pain, not once. She didn’t trust anyone with it, to his knowledge, but that hadn’t hurt his pride any less. He wished he could have been that person for her, but all he ever seemed to do was make the situation worse. 

“Yes, we worship Raava in the South. We burned tundra sage before the hunt and charred the finest cuts of our kills on her altar in thanks. Around the night-fires, the elders would tell children too young for wolftails the stories of Raava, our kind and loving patron god.” She spat the last words out with disgust, as if they had spoiled on her tongue. 

“All we had to do was _believe_ , and Raava would grace us with peace, prosperity, balance. But where was Raava when the ships came in the night? Where was she when my kinsmen stained the ice red, when we fought and died and starved for two winters?” The words were spilling out of her now, raw and brutal as a flash-flood, and they washed over the companions and pooled murky with grief on the table. “I _believed_. I have _always_ believed. And what good did that faith do me? My home was razed and my people slaughtered and the snow drank my father’s life-blood. Fuck you, Bolin. Don’t talk to me of faith! Koh take your thrice-damned faith!”

Korra’s fists were bunched and her whole body quivering with fury, and Asami reached out a hesitant hand and rested it on the coiled muscles of her shoulder. 

“Korra-” Asami began gently.

“Don’t touch me!” she snapped, shrugging away from Asami’s hand. Wearing a wounded expression, Asami let her hand linger for a moment in the tense air between them, then dropped it to her lap. Even then she did not take her eyes off of Korra’s face. 

Bolin had no more words to offer that. He looked guiltily at his hands where they sat cupped around his tankard. 

Mako wanted to say something - _anything_ \- wanted to offer some comfort or kind words or sage advice, but words failed him. They always did, and that made him feel weak and useless and ashamed, so he brought his cup to his lips to drink down the pain.

The drink was halfway to his mouth when Korra’s hand lashed out viper-quick and slapped it away. The cup bounced off the table and rattled on the floor, the noise cacophonous in the too-quiet tavern. 

Then she stormed off, taking with her the fury, the pain, and all of her jealously guarded secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who read this drivel. I started writing this for my own entertainment and for a long time wasn't sure if I would post it or not. I'm glad I did. 
> 
> To all of you who post those lovely comments, or who tap that kudos button, or who just take the time out of your day to read this story: Thank you from the bottom of my shameless-korrasami-shipper queer little heart! Y'all are the very best.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rooftops are for ruminating.  
> And Korra tells a long-ass story.  
> Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! 100+ Kudos! Neat. :P

There were good days and there were bad days, which was a marked improvement over the last three years in which there were only bad days. She still felt more like an observer than a participant in life, and she was still teetering on the edge of that desolate vortex, but those things had been getting consistently better. 

Asami thought there were probably a lot of reasons for that. 

She was back in the city that she loved, the home she was on the cusp of reclaiming after years of exile. 

The return of her friends as well brought meaning to an otherwise empty existence. Bolin was effervescent as ever, unflappably optimistic and playful. He had changed little in the intervening years, but for filling out a bit around the chest and shoulders, and his presence bolstered her spirits more often than not. 

Mako, well, Mako had changed a lot. His arrogance was gone, replaced by a near-crippling self-doubt, and while he had always been fond of the drink he had never been reliant on it. When she could muster any feelings about it at all they wavered between anger and sorrow. Still, though, she could see glimmers of the man he used to be - the man she believed he still _was_ beneath the doubt and drink - and that kept the fire of hope alive in her. 

Then there was Korra - brash, beautiful, and occasionally infuriating Korra - who blew into her life sudden and unapologetic as a summer storm and upended everything she thought she knew about herself. 

She felt drawn to the young woman in a way that, when she thought about it, made perfect sense. Everything about her stirred in Asami a fresh warmth from ashes she thought cold and dead. Her easy smile plucked at Asami’s heart and she laughed too often and too loudly and at all the wrong times, but that laugh was contagious and had etched itself like runes in her chest, thrumming warmer than any magic. Korra lived with zeal, and made sport of the most serious situations, and grieved quietly and alone, and raged with all the fury of a monsoon. It was no wonder she found herself drawn to the almost blinding vibrancy of the other woman. 

Sometimes Korra’s eyes turned dark and distressed, and she would leave without explanation to sort out her secrets in solitude, and Asami often wondered what it might take to coax those secrets out. Sometimes Korra smiled so bright it almost hurt to look directly at her, and in those moments she thought about what it would be like to kiss that gamely grinning mouth. 

She had been thinking about that more and more of late.

Her only hesitation came from the dreadful certainty that this infatuation would probably fizzle out the moment she indulged it. But the more time she spent with the other woman, the more that certainty began to wane and she began to wonder if perhaps this time would be different. 

She didn’t know if anything would ever come of these desires, or if she would feel the same way tomorrow as she did today. What she did know was that these past weeks were the first time she felt even remotely alive in three years, and she would be forever grateful to Korra for the part she played in that.

And so when Korra stormed off, leaving both table and tavern struck silent, Asami’s first instinct was to follow. She began to rise and do just that, but Bolin stopped her.

“She needs to be alone right now,” he said, eyes glassy, looking as if he might cry. 

She debated for a moment whether to sit back down, and decided with a heavy heart to take him at his word, because who was she to presume to know what Korra needed? These two had known her a year longer, and she wasn’t even sure the other would welcome her company. 

And so she sat and waited and pushed her unfinished meal around her plate. She waited for the anxiety coiling within her to dissipate. She waited for that cold, familiar void to swallow all vitality and purpose. She waited for apathy and for that overwhelming sense of pointlessness. 

But none of those things came, and the longer she waited the more anxious she became, until she was drumming her fingers on the hard tabletop and her foot was tapping of its own accord. 

She tried then to push the disquiet down, to lock it away as she so often did with unwanted feelings, and even that failed her. 

She made it nearly an hour before her distress got the better of her and she blurted, “I’m going to find her.”

“Don’t,” said Mako. He looked angry and hurt, and kept glancing longingly at the bar but had yet to order a drink to replace the one Korra had slapped from him. His shoulders were tense and his hands kept flexing open and closed, and he ran one through his hair and sighed. “She gets like this sometimes. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

“I’m going,” she repeated, rising. She had to. She couldn’t sit here and wonder any longer. 

“Okay,” said Bolin, and he stood and wrapped her in a hug. Releasing her and holding her at arm’s length he began in a quiet, serious tone. “She might yell at you. And she might tell you to leave, and if she does you should. And she might say some hurtful things, but try not to take it personally. She, she doesn’t mean it. It’s just she can’t help herself when she gets this angry.” 

Mako laughed bitterly. “Oh, she means a good many of the things she says, and she’ll back it up with a punch if you don’t believe it.” Then he frowned, dropped his gaze to the table, and retreated into himself again. 

Asami didn’t say anything to that, but she gave Bolin’s arm a thankful squeeze, and turned toward the staircase. 

When she arrived at their room she found it empty and the window open, which was as she expected. She crossed to the window, climbed onto the sill, and hoisted herself over the eave of the roof. 

Korra was sitting on the city-side pitch, hugging one knee to her chest and anchoring her weight on her other outstretched leg. She must have noticed Asami’s arrival - she was staring right through her and off into the horizon - but she made no acknowledgement of it. 

Scrambling up the slanted roof, Asami took a seat next to her, close enough to touch but not quite. The inches between them felt like a chasm. 

Inside of her anxiety bubbled fitfully. Stealing sideways glances at Korra, she tried to gauge the woman’s mood. She didn’t seem angry, not as such. With the way she was gazing morosely out into the city she seemed lost and scared and so much younger than one and twenty. 

A breeze was blowing off the bay, and it tugged on Korra’s wolftails and fluttered her bangs. Asami wanted desperately to breach the distance between them, to reach out and touch her or offer words of comfort, but she couldn’t muster the resolve. She almost did reach for Korra, but aborted the motion at the last instant and instead tucked a strand of hair behind her own ear. 

Korra felt impossibly far away, so she waited and watched the city that she loved, and compiled a collection of stolen glances at the woman who had so unexpectedly stormed her heart. 

It was nearly dusk and sunlight slanted eastward through the city, painting the gabled roofs in orange and red. The streets were busy, and the noise of the city floated up from below - music from nearby taverns, chatter of city folk and dock hands, swells of laughter from inside the _Tree of Time_. 

The beggars were out, so many more of them than there had been three years ago. 

“Copper, copper for a poor old man? Times are hard, they is. Ma’am, have you a copper for poor old Gommu? You sir? Bless you, sir! May the gods smile upon you for this kindness!” 

Asami had never felt so helpless. She could disarm the prickliest foreign dignitaries with a tactful turn of phrase, but what words were there to soothe a friend’s grief? She could fix just about anything and had built the most marvelous creations, but she couldn’t fix this, couldn’t rebuild a fragmented person. She could successfully grapple a man twice her size, but these sort of demons couldn’t be fought with fists.

Time passed without word or incident. She wasn’t sure how long they sat there, but the sun had wearied of watching them and retired for the night, and the moon had yet to offer its company. Slowly the stars began to winkle on in the sky above, and the gas lamps lit the cobbles below them in flickering yellows. 

When Korra finally spoke it was so unexpected that Asami nearly started, and her voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear it over the clamor of the Republic City night. 

“When I was six my father took me out riding in the Winter Wilds. Me, him, and a handful of our household guard,” she began, eyes focused somewhere immeasurably far away and long ago. 

“I was so excited. It was like an adventure, you know? I remember pretending I was Turraku the Brave, and I was leading a legion of stout men to do battle with the ice giants who made their home in the mountains beyond the frozen woods. Really we were hunting elk, not ice giants. Well, they were hunting elk and father brought me along to teach me the way of it.”

Asami held her breath, afraid the slightest movement might startle the other into silence. In that moment Korra’s voice was like breaking the surface after a lifetime of drowning, and it felt to Asami like her very life hinged upon every word. Always so reticent about her past, this was the first personal account Korra had ever shared with her, and Asami found herself enraptured.

“Early on the second day my father and I were leading our group by a hundred yards or so, and out of the woods comes this great white wolf. A _spirit_ -wolf, and she stood as tall as my pony and had golden eyes and slavering jaws full of yellow teeth. 

“My father’s horse bucked, and he was thrown and broke his ankle. My pony tried to throw me, too, but I jumped down and landed safely. Father called for me, called for the guards who were still a ways back, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of the wolf. I felt pulled to her, I can’t explain it, and I approached and stood before her without fear.”

Spirits were dangerous. Asami had never met a spirit, but once when she was small she met a man who had come to Republic City seeking treatment. He had encountered a spirit in the Feywood, and it had left him grotesquely disfigured - skin rough and cracked like bark, his right hand gnarled and useless as the roots of an old tree. The healers did everything they could, but nothing in their power could heal his ailments. She didn’t know what happened to him after that, but like all people she carried with her a healthy fear of spirits. 

Korra was looking out over the horizon, worrying her lip. She seemed distressed, and frightened, and Asami wanted again to comfort her but didn’t know how.

After a while, Korra took in a deep breath and held it for the space of a few heartbeats. Then she turned and met Asami’s gaze for the first time that night. In that instant Asami fell into a sea of swirling blue sadness, and her heart sunk like a stone in that well. There was fear there, and uncertainty, and the smallest glimmer of something else. Hope? Trust? She wasn’t sure, but she desperately wanted to find out.

“Asami,” she began, and her voice wavered. She cleared her throat and started again, and this time her voice was steady but the fear was still there, lurking just below the surface. “Asami, I’m going to tell you a story, and it’s very, _very_ hard to believe. I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” Asami said, and she was surprised by the sincerity in her own voice, and the certainty it reflected in her heart.

“Believe me. _Please_.”

“Of course.”

“I walked up to the wolf-spirit, and then she _spoke_ to me.”

Asami took a moment to let that sink in, then she responded in a slow and measured voice. “I didn’t think that anyone could talk to spirits.”

“I can,” Korra said ruefully. 

“I believe you,” and she did. How could she not? The earnestness in Korra’s eyes was rivaled only by the fear. The reassurance seemed to belay some of that fear, and she offered Asami a small, sad smile. “What did she say?”

“She said, ‘I’m hungry.’”

Asami’s surprise must have shown on her face because Korra let loose a bitter, mirthless laugh and continued, “What, did you think it would be something profound? She said, ‘I’m hungry and your man-children smell delightful. My sisters are nearby and possess none of my restraint. Get you gone from these woods, Avatar, if you value their lives.’ And then she turned and disappeared as quickly as she’d come.

“Then my father’s guards were on me and we made haste back to the safety of the city. The next few weeks were a blur. The elders wanted to see me every day, and they made me recount my conversation with the wolf-spirit again and again, and asked me all sorts of questions. Had I ever seen a spirit before? Had I ever talked to one? When I slept, what sort of things did I dream? Had I ever felt the pull of water or air or fire or earth? I answered as honestly as I could. I don’t think they believed me entirely about the wolf-spirit, but my father did, and they respected my father. He saw the whole thing, though he couldn’t understand her like I could. 

“One day the elders called me and said they would read the entrails of a hare, and for a proper reading it had to be me that killed the hare. It was the first time I had killed anything, and I remember trying to be brave about it, but in the end I cried anyway. They read the entrails that I had spilled in the light of the night-fire. Then they boiled the bones and charred them on the coals and they read those too. And then they sent me away and my father stayed and they talked long into the night. 

“After that nobody told me anything, but messenger hawks came and went from the palace at all hours of the day for weeks.”

Korra fell silent after that, and Asami reflected on what she had heard. She knew nothing of Korra’s past, other than she was a refugee of the South, but the more she thought about it the more she became convinced that Korra must have been much more than she first assumed. She had a household guard, after all, which spoke to some fair share of wealth. 

“You lived in the palace?” she probed, hoping to coax more information out of her.

“I did,” said Korra. “My father was Chief Tonraq and my mother was Senna, and I am the heir to the South. Or at least, at least I was,” she trailed off sadly and hugged her knee tighter to her chest. 

Asami hadn’t been expecting that, but the way Korra said it suggested it wasn’t even close to the thing she was so afraid of divulging, so she sat patiently and waited for the tale to continue. 

“A few weeks after that a ship arrived and with it came a legion of people. Father told me that they were to be the new household guard, and later I learned they called themselves the White Lotus.”

The name didn’t ring any bells. As an heir to the consulate Asami had been exposed to many different organizations - political, religious, social, military. She had never heard of the White Lotus, and she said as much. 

“Yeah, no one’s heard of them. Every so often I ask after them, but no one I’ve ever spoken to seems to know what I’m talking about. Anyway, they became my constant companions. There were always two of them everywhere I went. They taught me my letters, and how to fight with sword and staff and fist.”

And here Korra paused, and she looked so uncertain and afraid that Asami knew that Korra was teetering on the edge of what she was most frightened of sharing, though what that possibly could be she had no idea. 

“I believe you,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say. 

“You probably won’t after this,” Korra responded bitterly, but despite her words she gathered her resolve and set her jaw and continued with grim determination. 

“They, they told me I was Raava’s chosen, that I was to a be a mage of unrivaled power and aptitude, and they called me Avatar. They told me that I had a destiny, that I was supposed to be this harbinger of peace and balance in a time of great unrest. I don’t know, they were always very vague about it. I don’t think they really knew either. Supposedly there is a prophecy passed down for ages in the White Lotus, but I think that’s about all it says. I wasn’t allowed to speak of it to anyone. Nobody else knew, but for my parents and the elders. 

“Anyway, they tried for years to teach me to cast, said I’d be able to do it without incantation, you know, like an Adept. Like Mako. And when that didn’t work they taught me the incantations to see if that would help. It didn’t.”

As if afraid Asami wouldn’t believe the tale, Korra launched immediately into a slew of incantations. She started with ones familiar to Asami, chants used by artificers in their trade - enchant steel, enchant lock, imbue fire, imbue movement and light and ice - and by the gods every one of them was perfect. The ancient language rolled off her tongue as if made for it, and the chants floated musically in the air around them. Then Korra moved on to other incantations in other languages, and some sounded familiar, and some didn’t. 

“That’s incredible,” breathed Asami, and it was. Learning the incantations for one school of magic took a determination and aptitude that few possessed. But for all of them? It was an astonishing feat. 

“Not really,” said Korra with a sad smile. “I started Seeing when I was eight, but other than that? Not a magic bone in my body. Did you know that I See?”

“I didn’t.”

“Bolin and Mako do. I’ve asked them not to tell anyone. And when I See? Gods, I must sound like a lunatic, when I See I have visions of Aang the Nomad. I don’t understand a whole lot, but I guess, I guess he was like me, well, like I’m _supposed_ to be. He could cast anything. I guess the myths must have some kernel of truth to them, but my visions are all foggy and disjointed and I’m not sure what to make of them.”

She seemed to be relaxing into the tale, her shoulders loosening along with the grip on her knee, and she had an easier time meeting and holding Asami’s gaze. 

“Things were okay for a while. I was so proud to be special, and even though I hadn’t gotten the hang of magic at all, I was still convinced I would. Years passed, and still I believed.”

“Then the war came. Unalaq - that’s my uncle, did you know that? - he heard of the prophecy and he came to the South to capture me. No one knows that story, you know. The whole world thought it was just a grab for land and power.” Korra laughed bitterly at that, and her eyes were hard and hateful. “But he came for _me_ , Asami. I didn’t know for sure until years later when I overheard some of the guards at the compound talking about it. I wanted so badly not to believe it, but I think, I think a part of me always knew that was the case. 

 “The White Lotus orchestrated my escape from the besieged palace, and after the war they kept me in this compound deep in the Kolau Mountains of the Earth Kingdom. I was a prisoner, trussed up in robes of reverence and prophecy, but a prisoner all the same. They continued my training, and I began to resent everything about it, everything they taught me, everything they stood for. I was supposed to be Raava’s chosen, but I had never been more powerless and alone. I had believed in her, I had tried my best to serve her, and she took from me my home and family and there was not a goddamn thing I could do to stop it. If Raava chose me for that, she can go sit on a spear. I’m done with gods and prophecies.”

For all the venom of her words, she didn’t sound angry in the least. She sounded tired and broken. 

“One day five years ago I escaped. Took me four days to find my way to Omashu, and I caught the first caravan out of there. Didn’t care where it took me, so long as it was far, far away. I didn’t have a copper to my name, but I could fight, and I sold my sword to whoever had need of it. I haven’t looked back since.”

The tale ended as quietly as it had begun, and Asami sat for a long time and thought on all she had heard. 

“You haven’t told the brothers any of this, have you?” she asked. 

“I haven’t told _anyone_ this.” 

“Why not?” And then, because she thought it needed saying, “Thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t know. Because I don’t want to be that person anymore. I don’t even know if I believe it, you know? I can’t cast. I don’t feel any connection to magic or fate or anything. I guess, I guess I thought if I kept running for long enough I could outrun all of that.”

“I think you should tell them.” 

“Do you?” Korra looked uncertain, and the fear was back in her eyes. 

“Yes. They care about you, Korra. You don’t have to bear this burden alone.”

The tribeswoman was silent for a long time after that, staring blankly out into the Republic City night. She didn’t bring up the brothers, or express any intention of trusting them with her secrets. 

“Do you believe me?” she asked after a long while. 

“I do.” And she did. It was an absurd story, so fantastically unbelievable, but Asami could find no shred of doubt that Korra was anything but genuine. 

“Thank you.” 

Then Korra breached the distance between them as if it were nothing - that same distance that had seemed an impassible chasm to Asami - leaning casually against her and resting her head on the artificer’s shoulder. 

The contact sent a thrill rushing down her spine, and a fluttering warmth bloomed in her chest, and she leaned against Korra and thought again about kissing her, but in the end settled on throwing an arm over her shoulder and hugging her close. 

They sat like that for a very long time, and the moon watched them while they watched the city, until Korra began to droop and Asami was fighting sleep herself. 

“Korra.”

“Mrph?”

“We should sleep.”

“I suppose we should.”

Korra stood and laced her fingers, stretching her arms high above her head, and then the two of them dropped to the window sill and climbed into the room. When they did, Bolin nodded a greeting from where he was sitting on the bed with Pabu curled up in his lap. 

“Korslami! Where you, where have you been?” slurred Mako from where he was curled up on the floor. 

“On the roof, brother. I told you that ten minutes ago,” said Bolin with a long-suffering sigh. 

“Shuddup you. Talking to Korsamami, not, not you. Heh. Korsamami.”

Mako tried to push himself up from his prone position, but fell backwards onto his ass. Deciding it wasn’t worth the effort, he sat there swaying gently from side to side and grinning sloppily up at the two women. Asami fought the sudden impulse to kick him in the head. 

“I’m sorry. I tried to stop him.” Bolin rose and gestured helplessly toward his brother. Pabu gave an irritated little _chirrup_ at having been displaced, and turned a few circles before settling back on the bed. With a guilty and downtrodden look, Bolin turned to Korra. “And, and I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to push you like that.” He trailed off quietly and cast his eyes at the floor.

“It’s okay, Bo. Bo? Hey, look at me.” Bolin was staring at his shuffling his feet, but slowly lifted his chin to meet Korra’s gaze. She offered him a tired, conciliatory smile. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Hug?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

The two embraced and stayed that way for a long time. 

When they parted Asami caught Korra’s gaze, casting her a smile she hoped would convey her unwavering support. Judging by the thankful nod from the sell-sword, the message had been received. 

She didn’t know if Korra was going to tell the brothers, but she sincerely hoped that she would. It was Korra’s decision, though, and Mako was in no state to hear and remember any sort of confession right now, so she didn’t press the issue. It wasn’t her place, anyway, and she would cherish the fact that she had been trusted with the information even if no one else was. 

Mako was already sleeping off his drunk at this point, and the three of them got ready for bed in silence, snuffing out the lanterns and latching the shutters against the light of the city. 

They lay there in the darkness for a long while, Asami on one side of the bed, Korra on the other, Bolin in between them. She found herself wondering what it would be like to sleep curled up with Korra, and felt silly and selfish for indulging the fantasy when there were more pressing things to worry about. 

After a while Korra’s whisper broke the stillness of the room. “Bo? You asleep?” 

“Sure am,” he said, very much awake. 

“Ass,” she grumbled, then she hesitated and Asami waited for the words she hoped would come. “On the morrow, I’d like to talk to you. You and Mako both.”

“You got it, Korra. On the morrow.” 

Eventually the others drifted off. Mako groaned every so often from the floor, and Bolin snored softly beside her, and the gentle cadence of Korra’s breath could be heard underneath all of that. Propping herself up on an elbow, Asami studied the other woman in the darkened room. All lines of grief and worry were gone, replaced by an almost childlike serenity. It brought a peace and warmth to Asami’s heart, and with that in the forefront of her thoughts, she gave herself to sleep. 

\-----

The next morning Korra awoke to the spattering sound of Mako emptying the contents of his stomach into a bucket. 

Blinking her eyes open, she pried herself from around Bolin’s broad back and he snorted and whined, turning over in his sleep and groping for her. Sleepily and without enthusiasm she swatted his hands away. The two of them were unrepentant sleep-snugglers and they had overcome any potential awkwardness over a year ago after those first few nights sharing a room in Ba Sing Se. As she slung her legs over the side of the bed, Bolin and Asami began to stir behind her.

Mako was hunched over on the floor, moaning sickly into the bucket in his lap. She nudged it with her toe to get his attention, and the contents of the bucket sloshed wetly.

“Morning,” she said, trying and failing to hold off her frown. Her head was still foggy with sleep, and she felt a permeating unease that she could not account for. She had the distinct feeling she was forgetting something important. 

“Gods,” he groaned, “It feels like Boulder sat on my head.” He clapped his tongue a few times and spat into the bucket. “And I think something died in my mouth.”

“Your dignity?” Korra suggested.

“Your self-respect?” yawned Bolin, sitting up and stretching.

“Fuck you both. It’s too early for your snark.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much next time,” said Asami cooly as she twisted her hair back with a leather tie. 

Mako looked annoyed for a moment, but then his face fell and he averted his eyes. “I hadn’t meant to. It just,” he sighed and carded a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. “It just sort of happened,” he finished lamely. 

“See that it doesn’t happen again,” replied Asami, and Mako didn’t say anything to that. 

Korra rose from the bed and stretched languidly before stripping off her undertunic and rummaging around for her chest wraps. Bolin stripped out of his sleep clothes as well, and chatted amicably at her about the techniques he wanted to practice that day. Having slept in his day clothes, Mako lay back and laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, reserved and contemplative. 

After they finished dressing, Asami caught her eye. The woman was looking at her strangely, and in that instant the conversation of the night before came flooding back into Korra’s mind. She was overcome with a flurry of warring emotions - trepidation and relief and uncertainty, among many others.

She hadn’t intended to trust Asami with her past. It just sort of happened, and she wasn’t yet sure how to feel about it. She didn’t feel ready to trust anyone else with that, not even the brothers, and when she thought about it panic began to coil in her belly. 

Silently praying that Bolin would not remember last night’s comment, she suggested casually that they go break their fast and get an early start on training. She was starving, after all, and perhaps if she kept them busy Bolin would forget she ever mentioned anything about wanting to talk. 

“Sure. I’m starving! But what was it you wanted to talk to us about?” Bolin asked, oblivious to the string of obscenities that exploded in her head at the question.

“Uh...” She could lie, it would be so easy, but then she looked to Asami and the other woman was watching her in that unreadable, calculating way of hers. It was an expression Korra was used to, but she much preferred the way Asami had looked at her last night - with trust and compassion and something else that made her stomach tighten pleasantly. 

She supposed she couldn’t lie after all, and she resigned herself to her fate. 

“Well, you see, I wanted to talk to you about my past, about Raava.”

Bolin looked at her expectantly and plopped down on the bed, waiting for her to continue. Pushing himself into a sitting position, Mako regarded her as well, though he seemed a little confused and uncertain. Asami was looking right at her, warmth in her eyes and the merest shadow of a smile on her lips, and that was all Korra really cared about in that moment. 

Sucking in a deep breath, she tried her best to swallow down the fear. She wasn’t successful in the least, but she resolved plow through the fear just as she had the night before. With one last look to Asami for courage, she turned to the brothers and began in a hurried voice before she lost her nerve.

“I can talk to spirits. My father was Chief Tonraq and my mother was Senna. The necromancer Unalaq is my uncle, and he came to the South to capture me because of this prophecy thing that says I’m supposedly Raava’s champion and it’s my destiny to restore balance or, I don’t know, or some shit.”

At the mention of Raava, Bolin let out an excited little _eep!_ and Korra cut him off with a, “-Shut up, Bolin.” He held his tongue, but it was clearly a struggle to do so. 

She continued without pause, and by now the words were spilling out of her and flooding the room and she couldn’t stop them even if she tried. “According to this prophecy I’m supposed to be an all-powerful mage, but fuck me sideways I don’t believe that one bit because I’m about as magic as a donkey’s fart. When I See, I have visions of Aang the Nomad. I hate mornings and I hate visions and I hate that you’re always drunk, Mako, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore so let’s not.”

She finished in a rush, breathing so fast she was nearly panting. Her palms were sweating, and as she watched the brothers exchange uncertain looks, panic began to gain purchase in her heart. Her stomach lurched and her throat tightened like a vice, and when she tried to swallow she found that she couldn’t. 

She sounded like a lunatic. They didn’t believe her. Gods, they were staring at her, gaping and dumbstruck, and they didn’t believe her and she wanted more than anything in that moment to run as far as her legs would take her. 

And then Bolin opened his mouth and raised a finger, and recognizing the look on his face Korra rushed to cut him off. “Don’t say anything about Raava right now. I can’t handle it.”

He paused like that, mouth open and then finger raised, and then he settled on a defeated, “Okay.”

Mako looked overwhelmed by the influx of information and he tried a few times to start a thought, but his words failed him. His eyes were soft and sorrowful, though, and Korra wished he could be better at expressing that, but Mako had a long history of saying the wrong thing if he ever got that far. 

The silence was overwhelming. She could feel an itch in the back of her throat and heat prickling behind her eyes, and gods-be-damned she would sooner bolt from the room than cry in front of everyone like this. There was nowhere to run, though. Her story was out and she couldn’t take the words back no matter how much she wished it. The conversations of the past day had cemented in reality everything she had fled from for five years, and she knew there would be no more running, and that was the most terrifying thing about it.

Just as she was readying an excuse to leave the room she felt a hand on her shoulder, and when she turned to her left she found Asami smiling at her so warmly that for a moment she forgot how to breathe. 

And then Asami mouthed something at her, and for a terrifying (exhilarating, heart-stopping) moment she thought it had been _I love you_. But no, that wasn’t right. It was _I’m proud of you_ , though even that was enough to set her heart fluttering in her chest and a heat rushing to her cheeks. 

Asami was proud of her. Asami believed her. She was here, present, offering quiet compassion and unasked-for support, and for the first time in a very long time Korra felt as though she wasn’t alone. Her insecurities were not banished, but for the moment they had been chased a little ways off. 

With newfound courage, she drew herself up and turned back towards the brothers. “That’s my story,” she said with conviction. And it was. This was her story, her burden, her past and her present, and for the first time in five years it felt bearable to own that. 

The tension in the room was thick, and the silence heavy, but then Bolin cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him. He was rocking heel to toe and smiling his big and goofy smile. 

“So...” he began, and there was mischief in his eyes. “Does this mean you’re a princess?”

“Bo!” Mako hissed angrily, clearly mortified by his brother’s tactlessness. 

Ignoring Mako’s protest, Bolin continued unabashed. “It does, doesn’t it?” He knelt then, and took one of Korra’s hands in his own, pressing his lips to her scarred knuckles. “My hammer is yours, my liege.” The gesture was more playful than reverent, and Korra cracked a smile at his attempt at humor but didn’t have the heart to laugh. 

Without warning Bolin was knocked sprawling by his brother, and the two tumbled to the floor in a tangled pile of limbs. Their struggle was punctuated by thumps and grunts and cursing as Mako tried to wrestle Bolin into submission, boxing him about the ears. “Bolin-” _grunt_ “- you are -” _thump, thump_ “-such an _ass!_ ”

“Ow! Ow, get off my foot!” 

The two struggled for a time, knocking into the bed, the wall, and the chest of drawers. At one point Korra and Asami had to jump backwards to escape the tumbling tangle of brothers. In the end Mako’s fury was no match for Bolin’s strength, and he was pinned stomach-down on the floor with Bolin sitting on the small of his back. 

“Could you be any more insensitive?” he wheezed, trying and failing to glower over his shoulder at the squire. 

“I mean, I’m sure I could if I _really_ tried.” Bolin was panting now, winded from the scuffle, but he was still grinning.

Korra was torn between a hundred feelings, most of which she couldn’t even name. She knew she was exhausted, though, and her heart was still heavy with sorrow, but some small part of her was grateful to Bolin for his absurdity, and Mako for his stalwart defense in her moment of vulnerability. 

“It’s okay, Mako,” she said after a while. “He’s right. Heir to the South. Heir to ashes.” And she offered them a smile that she hoped was reassuring but realized was probably just sad.

Gods, talking was exhausting. She looked longingly at the bed and wished she could just curl up and sleep until the revolution. Fighting was so much easier than this. 

She almost jumped when she felt Asami’s hand on her shoulder, tracing a gentle path to her mid back. It was a harmless gesture, meant to reassure and comfort, but it set Korra’s heart thundering and a fire coiling in her belly. Still, though, she leaned into that touch and thankfully accepted the comfort. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” asked the artificer quietly.

“It was _awful_. I’m never listening to you again.” Korra smiled at her, though, and when Asami smiled back it was like the weight of her worries had been lifted. It really hadn’t been that bad at all, she mused, not with Asami here and looking at her like that. 

“Lies. You always listen to me.” Her smile grew, and _spirits_ it was the most beautiful thing Korra had ever seen. 

“Never again,” she insisted without any conviction. 

On the floor Mako grumbled about feeling sick again, and Bolin, ever helpful, bounced a little on his back. 

“Mako!” Bolin exclaimed with a gasp.

“What?” groused Mako into the floor. 

“I’ve been spooning _royalty_.” 

And Korra started to laugh at that, but her chuckle died in her throat and all thoughts fled her mind when Asami gave her arm an appreciative squeeze and murmured, “ _Lucky_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so when I outlined this story I hadn’t realized how many words it would freakin’ take. Y’all okay with that? We’re more than halfway through with Book 1, but there’re still some things that need to happen. Anyone getting bored yet?
> 
> Not sure how I feel about this chapter. I’ll probably edit it a million more times, so ya know. 
> 
> Also, Korrasami starting next chapter? Eh? Yeah? That’s the plan. We’ll see what happens. Those two clearly want it. ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning wood is a thing.  
> Taverns have precious little privacy.   
> And Mako tries, but it’s too little too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, because I has the writer's block and this was all I could get out. Sad day.

The first time Korra woke up holding Asami was a few days later and it happened - like most things in Korra’s life - quite by accident. 

Realization dawned slowly, as it was wont to do in early mornings.

It was hot already - not at all uncommon for late summer in the Republic - and at some point during the night she must have kicked the covers to the foot of the bed.

She was lying on her side behind Asami, pressed flush against the other’s back, legs tangled and left arm slung around her waist. After her initial surprise, she considered that she might want to extricate herself from this position. That was until she realized that Asami was already awake and had threaded their fingers together, thumb tracing a gentle track across a scarred knuckle. 

She took a moment to let the reality of the situation sink in - gods, mornings were so _confusing_ \- and was surprised to find herself at peace with it. Asami’s hair was splayed out across the lumpy sack pillows and a few errant strands tickled Korra’s nose. The base of her neck was exposed, and she fought a near overwhelming impulse to press a kiss there, right above the collar of her undertunic. 

She was a little bewildered, but otherwise quite pleased. A few days ago she would have been embarrassed to wake up wrapped around the artificer or downright terrified at how her heart felt about to swell out of her ribcage, but now it felt almost natural - the organic progression of the quiet certainty Korra had felt since her confession. 

And _spirits_ , what an anticlimax that confession had been. The world had not ground to a halt, the skies had not split open, and Raava had not descended from the heavens and demanded that Korra embrace her destiny or sacrifice her life for some grand cause. Alternately, she felt just as lost and disconnected as she had previously, and she wasn’t sure which was more disappointing.

Life had carried on much as it had before except for the occasional moon-eyed looks she caught from Bolin, though he would always glance away and pretend it hadn’t happened. As much as those looks irritated her, she appreciated that he didn’t openly swoon over her uncertain relationship with his precious Raava. Mako, too, was now prone to gazing at her with a wounded expression, and she supposed it made sense that he felt betrayed by her lack of trust. Understanding that, though, didn’t make the guilt any easier to bear.

The only one who unequivocally treated her the same was Asami. She was her usual self - a stalwart, anchoring presence in Korra’s life, sometimes emotionally distant but ever supportive. 

For a long while neither said anything. It seemed a moment too fragile for words. Instead they lay there, and Korra was content to let things be as they were. As she lay, the gentle press of Asami’s fingers in her own lulled her into a comfortable, contemplative state.

She began to probe through her sleep-shrouded mind to ferret out how she had come to wake up beside the other woman, and slowly memories of the day before began to filter into her awareness. 

The brothers had stayed up late the previous night, she was almost certain. Mako had been making a valiant effort to stay sober, and he was moderately successful in that he drank only enough to still the shaking of his hands, but it left him irritable and restless and he’d hardly slept in three days. 

Bolin had taking a liking to Ginger these past few weeks, and Korra remembered seeing the whore draped across his lap right before she and Asami retired for the evening. She didn’t think they were fucking. Bolin, for one, considered himself above paying for the carnal pleasures, though he did fall for, woo, and bed a different girl in every town they stayed in longer than three days. Ginger was too shrewd a businesswoman to be giving away goods that fetched a polished gold. Still, the two seemed to enjoy each other’s company, and when she wasn’t otherwise occupied with a client, she could often be found carding her hands through Bolin’s hair while he told tales of battles past and sung the old songs in his clear and soothing tenor. 

So that was it then, she and the artificer had retired earlier than the boys, and they had fallen asleep on opposite ends of the bed, she was sure of it. She must have rolled over at some point during the night, seeking the comfort of a nearby body. 

Behind her an abrupt snort from Bolin reminded her that they weren’t alone, and disappointment sunk heavy in her gut like a stone. This was a most pleasant way to wake up, and she was loathe to share the moment with the brothers. 

She huffed quietly in frustration and the other woman shifted in her arms. 

“Morning,” whispered Asami, giving Korra’s hand a welcome squeeze. Korra thought again about placing a kiss on the exposed skin of her neck, but instead held her close and buried her nose in a sea of flowing black. 

“Morning,” she responded quietly into Asami’s hair, and was rewarded when Asami pressed further into her embrace. 

“Murnin,” mumbled Bolin, and he turned over in his sleep and threw an arm and leg over Korra, snuggling up close. She knew from experience that it wasn’t a sword pommel poking her in the rear, and she let loose an irritated sigh before trying to wiggle away from the squire and closer to Asami. 

The problem with this was that she was already flush with Asami, and Bolin was flush with her, so she was effectively pinned, front and back. In front of her she could feel Asami’s body shaking with silent laughter. 

Frowning, she blew both her own and Asami’s hair out of her face. “Not funny, Lady Sato. Something is poking me in the rear and I’m sure it’s not a sword.”

“ _Very_ funny,” replied Asami, and though Korra couldn’t see her face, the smile was evident in her voice. “It is _one_ kind of sword, and as I recall you are an expert swordswoman. Surely you can handle a little poke in the rear.”

“Har har. You’re fucking hilarious. Why don’t you get up so I can escape?”

“Oh, but I’m so comfortable. I think I’ll lay here for a while yet.” 

“Ass,” she murmured, a sentiment which would have held much more conviction if she hadn’t nuzzled back into the other woman’s hair while doing it. “Bo. Hey Bo. Get off me.”

“Hrm? But why?” Bolin asked, drawing the last word out in a petulant whine. 

“Because you’re trying to sword-fight my ass, and it’s too early for sparring.” She disentangled her left arm from Asami’s grip and reached back to slap Bolin playfully on the cheek. “Roll over, Sir Squire.”

“Mmm I guess,” he mumbled sleepily, and then he rolled off of her and sprawled out on his back, effectively taking up most of the bed. Shortly the sound of his snoring resumed.

Asami’s laughter redoubled, and she turned in Korra’s arms and smiled brightly at her. Korra’s breath caught in her throat at the sight, but she managed to return the smile with feeling. Spirits, but her eyes were beautiful when she laughed - sparkling and crinkled at the edges and so very green. 

“Laugh it up, Sato,” she said, tongue heavy and head light and a warmth blooming low in her belly. “Tonight _you_ sleep in the middle.”

“Oh? Is this a thing now? Sleeping next to one another?” Asami propped herself on an elbow so that she was looking down at Korra. This time her smile held the promise of something more than mirth, and Korra was almost certain she saw the other woman’s gaze flick down to her lips. 

“It can be, if you want.” Korra murmured, and wondered for what had to be the hundredth time that week if Asami’s lips were as soft as they looked. She had the feeling she was about to find out, and that made her heart flutter in her chest and anticipation coil tight in her stomach. 

“I think I might like that.” 

Asami’s response was almost too soft to hear and she reached out one hand to brush a lock of Korra’s unbound hair out of her eyes before letting the hand linger on her cheek. Her hands were cool and the pads of her fingers slightly rough, but the gesture itself was gentle and hesitant and made Korra want to know what those hands would feel like elsewhere. 

Asami leaned in then, agonizingly slow, her green eyes half-lidded and her lips slightly parted. Anticipation sang in Korra’s veins, setting her entire body alight. Her tongue darted out to wet her own lips but didn’t think it did any good because her mouth had gone dust dry at the sight before her. She wanted to capture this image in her mind for all time. It was breathtakingly beautiful - Asami’s fine skin alight in the soft morning light, her full lips just slightly parted, hunger and hesitation warring in the green of her eyes, her hair cascading like water and curtaining their faces. 

Korra leaned up as well, and they both paused a moment before they met, and the trembling restraint of that moment was the most delightful sort of agony, the kind that could squeeze a heart to the point of bursting. She was so close now Korra could feel the heat radiating off her lips and the soft caress of her breath. 

And then Asami closed the distance and the first hesitant brush of her lips was enough to send electricity coursing through Korra’s body. Desire flared bright within her, and suddenly it wasn’t enough - this quiet, careful kiss. Korra wanted more, needed to drink the other down to the last drop, to know the taste of her tongue and her moans and her want. 

Before she could reach up to tangle a hand in the other’s hair, before she could flick her tongue across the soft silk of Asami’s lips and beg for the wet heat of her mouth, the door burst inward and hit the wall with a deafening _crack_ , startling Asami so badly that she would have rolled backward off the bed had Korra not caught her arm. Tensing for whatever new danger was upon them, Korra prepared to spring out of bed and snatch her quarterstaff from where it was leaning nearby against the wall. 

She aborted the motion as soon as she saw who it was, and instead let loose a frustrated growl, heart beating out of her chest an blood thundering in her ears. Her body was flushed - burning with a queasy mix of desire and anger and embarrassment - and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to vault out of bed and punch the interloper in the throat or bury her face in her hands and hide for a few days. She settled on folding her arms over her chest and pouting at nothing in particular. 

Shia stood in the doorway, all gamesome smile and twinkling dark eyes. Her mousy hair was a tangle and she placed a hand on a cocked hip and waved a greeting with the other. “Wake up, you filthy fucks! Lin wants to speak to you.”

“Gods, Shia! Don’t you ever knock?” Korra snapped. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and desperately wished to return to the quiet bliss of the moment before. Asami had recovered herself, but was blushing furiously and refusing to look directly at anyone. 

“Never.” Shia’s grin was yellow and toothy. Meanwhile the brothers were blinking sleep out of their eyes and grumbling at the rude awakening. 

“What’s Lin want with us?” Mako asked from the floor. He was sallow and sunken, and his hands shook despite his best efforts to hide it. 

“Beats the piss out of me, love. I just work the door. Now get up, the lot of you. Best not to keep the boss waiting.” And then she was gone with a sly little wink and a wave over her shoulder. 

A few moments of quiet passed between the four, and then Korra cleared her throat. 

“So...” she trailed off, and suddenly the silence felt incredibly awkward. Bolin was looking at her in that way of his, the one that meant he was rooting around in her head. 

She exchanged a nervous glance with Asami, and the artificer looked even more beautiful with a high color in her cheeks and an almost bashful look on her fine features. 

“So I suppose we shouldn’t keep Lin waiting,” Asami finished hurriedly, and Korra could hear the strain in her voice and the dubious raise of Bolin’s eyebrow told her he had picked up on it as well. 

Groaning and rising to his feet, Mako braced his hands on his lower back and stretched backward. “I suppose we should,” he agreed. Then he rummaged through his rucksack and removed from it his wineskin, taking a small sip with shaking hands. 

Korra watched him, and saw the way he hesitated before he brought the drink to his mouth, saw the way he frowned at the skin with an astounding amount of regret, the way he held it as if it were a snake about to bite him. It looked as if he couldn’t discern whether the drink was his dearest friend or death on dark wings, and he drank with the resignation of a condemned man marching to the gallows. It caused Korra’s heart to clench with grief, and she might have badgered him with a snide comment if he hadn’t looked so damn broken.

She decided that she didn’t want to think about Mako and how far he had fallen from the man she once knew, and instead set about dressing for the day.

The four readied themselves in relative silence and then found Lin in the ale cellar, standing ramrod straight and scowling at the empty room.

“The fuck took you so long?” she greeted with her usual amicability. 

“Can we eat first?” whined Bolin, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “I’m starving and it’s too early for important talking things.”

“Sun’s been up an hour, you lazy curs. You four are the sorriest lot of layabouts I’ve ever had the misfortune of housing.”

“Cut to the chase, Lin. We’re here now,” said Asami, clearly not intimidated by Lin’s gruff disposition. Her composure was back - that mask she wore when she faced the world - and even Korra could not spot any cracks in it, and she considered herself the authority on Asami and her moods. 

“Couple things,” began Lin, addressing Asami. “First, Shady Shin broke an ankle in a barroom brawl, and Kya says he’ll be out of commission for the infiltration team. That leaves you with four. Make do.”

Asami frowned as the information sunk in, her eyes getting that calculating look to them again.

Korra herself wasn’t too worried about that. The infiltration team was a roll of the dice to begin with. They had no idea what to expect on the other side of the wall, or what sort of damage their small group could really do. Korra, for one, thought the whole thing a terrible idea, but she would be damned if she would send Asami into the fire alone, and there was no talking Asami out of it. That woman was twice as stubborn as herself, she’d wager a polished platinum on that.

So Shady Shin was out, and that left only four of them - Asami, Korra, Tahno the water mage, and Two-Toed Ping the rogue. One less wouldn’t make much of a difference, in Korra’s opinion. The whole thing was a thrice-damned suicide mission.

“Any new intelligence on what we can expect on the inside?” Asami asked, mind working furiously behind the bright green of her eyes.

“Nothing new. No one has ever met Amon in traditional battle before, so we have no idea what strategies he will employ. If he’s smart he’ll have most of his men defending the walls and assembled in the inner courtyard. The palace is not nearly as defensible as the wall, and it’s likely he knows that. See if you can’t get inside the palace proper and sabotage whatever you can. Do not, I repeat, do _not_ engage the main force. I don’t care what your feelings on Amon. If he is with the bulk of his men you are to leave him to us. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye, Lin, we know the plan,” interrupted Korra, “Get in, fuck shit up, don’t die. Got it. Now what else?” Korra asked, dreadfully bored with the discussion and more than a little irritated that her pleasant morning had been interrupted for this.

Lin turned her sharp green eyes on Mako and continued in a clipped and commanding tone. 

“Mako, I’m moving you to the rearguard.”

“What?” Mako’s eyes got wide and he threw a puzzled gaze around the assembled group before settling on Lin. “No! I’m in the vanguard with Bolin!”

“Not anymore you’re not,” replied Lin, and when Mako began to protest she talked over him, “and I’ll thank you to shut your fucking mouth and listen. You’re a liability, a fucking lush, and I won’t have you endangering my men. If it were up to me I would have you removed from battle entirely, but Raiko is loathe to part with a mage when we have so few of them. You’ll be in the rearguard under Iroh. If we’re lucky, you won’t see a lick of battle.”

“I’ve been getting better! I’ll try harder! If you would just-”

“This is _not_ up for discussion. You are dismissed.”

She stood there looking at the four, and when none of them moved after being dismissed, she snorted once, turned on her heel, and strode purposefully out of the cellar. 

Mako gaped dumbstruck at her retreating form and then turned to his brother with pleading, panicked eyes.

“Bo, you’ve got to talk to her! Please,” he entreated, “she listens to you. I can be better!”

“I’m not so sure, brother,” said Bolin in a voice heavy with sorrow. “I think Lin might be right. You’re going to get yourself hurt, or worse.”

Then the squire left, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his worries.

“Asami, Korra, you have to believe me. I never wanted things to turn out like this.” Mako’s eyes were sad and his voice cracked. Looking to the women for validation, he opened his palms in a gesture of helplessness, and Korra noted offhandedly that they were steadier than they had been a half hour ago. “ _Gods!_ I don’t know what’s wrong with me! This is not who I want to be.”

“I know, Mako,” said Korra, and she did, but knowing brought her no closer to a solution and precious little comfort.

When Asami’s hand slipped into her own and squeezed gently, that _did_ bring some small comfort, and Korra clung to that as the drowning cling to flotsam. It still amazed her that the artificer’s mere presence could still the storm inside of her, and she supposed at one point it would have frightened her that another had such consistent influence over her emotions, but at the moment she wanted nothing else but the calm comfort of Asami’s hand.

She didn’t want to think about Mako and his slow descent into madness. She didn’t want to think about war and danger and the possibility of death looming three days on the horizon. She wanted to think about Asami, about how her lips really were as soft as they looked, and how she wanted more than anything to kiss her again. 

She decided that she would, and soon, but for the moment those pleasant thoughts were pushed to the side by the worries of the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh! Shout out to my kid brother and his now-fiance! Congratulations, Josh and David, you freakin’ homos. Love you to bits and pieces. 
> 
> Shout out to my homophobic father. Congratulations, Pops! You’ve been blessed with two beautiful queer children and one beautiful heteronormative one!
> 
> Shout out to me, now officially the old maid of the family, resigned to die loveless and alone with my 18 cats and 10,000 pages of angsty Korrasami fanfiction. XD


End file.
